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Chapter Three
The ceiling fan spun above us in slow, lazy circles, keeping in rhythm with the gentle clapping of flesh as Michael thrust above me. He drove himself deep into me, grinding his hips, searching for an angle that worked.
Even in the dark, I could see how tightly his eyes were closed. Like he couldn’t bear to look at me. Or like he couldn’t risk shattering whatever fantasy kept him hard.
He wasn’t here. Not with me. In his mind, he was buried in someone else–someone younger, tighter. Someone who made him groan the way I used to. I could feel it in the way he moved–each thrust chasing a body that wasn’t mine. The thought shouldn’t’ve aroused me as much as it did. I arched up to meet him, chasing the motion of the girl he was really fucking.
I wanted him to let go, to lose himself completely to the fantasy and make me feel like I was nothing more than a toy to be used for pleasure. But then something shifted–between the fantasy and the body beneath him. He stopped thrusting with a stifled curse.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, finally looking at me for the first time since we started. “I can’t…”
He rolled off me with a resigned huff, the mattress shifting under his weight as he settled beside me.
I turned onto my side to face him, my breath catching in my chest at the sudden withdrawal. Still, I found the words, pushing them through the silence. “What’s wrong?”
The question hung there, heavy and bare.The silence stretched. Almost too long.
“It’s just not the same anymore.”
His voice was quiet. Small. Like if he said it any louder, it would shatter something between us.
“I love you,” he added. “But… it doesn’t feel like it used to.”
I froze.
The words landed with a dull weight in my chest. Not a wound–something deeper. A pressure that didn’t bleed but still hurt.
I kept my voice steady. “Have you… tried thinking about Alysson?”
He stiffened. I went on.
“I wouldn’t mind,” I said gently. “If it helps.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the ceiling, jaw tense. Then, quietly– “I’ve tried.”
His voice was hoarse. Raw. “I’ve thought about her. A lot, actually. But that was so long ago. And… not just her. Even other girls, sometimes. Still doesn’t work. Even in my head, it’s like my body won’t believe it.”
I didn’t move. Just kept listening. Waiting. My chest tightened.
“I’m inside you, and it still doesn’t work. It’s like…” He exhaled sharply. “And I hate myself for thinking about it. But I can’t stay hard if I’m imagining someone tighter and I can feel that you’re not.”
I blinked, staring past him into the dark, my heart racing for all the wrong reasons.
His words should’ve broken me. Should’ve filled me with rage or sorrow or shame. And maybe they did–just not in the way I expected.
I felt heat bloom in my stomach–low, twisting. Something about being unwanted–physically incapable of keeping him aroused–sent a thrill straight to the place between my thighs.
He wants someone tighter.
He needs someone else just to finish.
My breath hitched.
I’m not enough.
The ache that settled into my hips wasn’t grief. It was hunger. A deep pit that begged to be ripped open and abused.
I reached for him, hand sliding along his bare stomach, slow and soft. Tracing the lines of his abs to his cock, still moist from my juices.
“I can help,” I whispered, almost afraid of my own voice. “You can use my mouth.”
He flinched. “No… it’s ok.”
He sat up, grabbing his phone from the nightstand.
“It’s not you,” he said again, but it sounded like a script now. “I just need to… clear my head.”
And then he left the bed, the soft pat of his feet on the carpet the only sound until the bathroom door clicked shut behind him. Leaving alone in bed with all the words he didn’t say.
Loose.
Unfuckable.
Not enough.
He could even pretend anymore. Not even with his eyes closed. He’d rather jerk off to girls online than feel my stretched out pussy around him.
Any other woman would have cried. Would’ve told him to fuck off. But all I could feel was heat curling between my legs. Moisture grew each time the words echoed in my head.
Used.
Overfucked.
Inadequate.
They weren’t insults. They were truths. Little bruises that throbbed in all the right places each time I pressed them.
I slid my hand between my thighs, feeling the wetness left over from what little attention he gave me–my clit still swollen and sensitive from being discarded. I let the sides of my fingers gently graze the little nub as I reached for my hole. I spread myself wide, feeling the hollowness Michael refused to fill, rocking my hips to stroke my clit against my palm.
My other hand drifted to my breast, but it felt useless. Soft. Sagging. I pictured her–Alysson–how tight her skin would be. How perfect she’d look bouncing in his lap, her breath hitching every time he grunted.
He used to make those sounds with me.
Now he made them alone.
I bit down on ataşehir escort my lip and shut my eyes, hard. I didn’t want to see the ceiling or the empty side of the bed. I wanted to see him. Standing behind Alysson. Holding her hips while he fucked her with the weight he never gave me anymore.
I imagined him groaning her name into her ear.
I imagined her crying out for more.
I imagined myself watching–kneeling on the floor, forgotten, soaking wet just from seeing how good he looked inside someone he deserved.
I guided my fingers into my pussy. One at first, then another… then another. They glided in with ease.
Outdated.
Replaceable.
Inferior.
I shoved my fingers in deeper, spreading them apart until they pushed at the walls of my cunt. I wasn’t the woman he wanted. I was the thing he used to want. The thing he used until I was no longer useful. I pressed harder, forcing my pussy to make way for another finger, chasing the rhythm he once loved. Quick and thunderous. Until my knuckles pushed their way into my opening with a quiet, sloppy pop.
I imagined his body curved over her. His eyes locked on hers as he made deep, powerful thrusts. His orgasm–once mine– was ripped out of him by someone younger than me. Someone tighter. Someone that didn’t have to beg to be used.
My pussy tried to clamp down as my own orgasm rippled through my body until my juices pooled in my hand. Waves of ecstasy dragged me somewhere far away. When they were gone, only the shame of being obsolete remained.
— — —
The next morning, Michael kissed me on the cheek like nothing had happened.
He made breakfast–eggs, toast, a smoothie–and gave me that boyish smile he always wore when he was trying to charm his way out of awkwardness. I smiled back. I even laughed at his dumb joke about protein powder.
He still looked at me the same. Still touched my back when he passed by, still offered to pour my coffee first, still told me I looked beautiful when I left for work. But the words landed like feathers on my skin. Something had shifted inside of me.
I watched him butter his toast and pour my coffee like I was observing a stranger through a window. I smiled, laughed, nodded at the right moments. But underneath, I was somewhere else entirely. Detached. Dissolved. Like I had slipped out of my skin and was watching this marriage play out from a few feet above the table.
Sometimes I offered myself. Softly. Passively.
Late at night, when the house was quiet and the air felt thick with maybe.
“You can use my mouth, if you want.”
Or early in the morning, slipping beside him in the shower.
“You can do it from behind. I won’t say anything.”
Once, even at dinner, when we were clearing plates.
“If you want to fuck me before bed, I’ll leave the light off.”
Sometimes he declined. Always gently. A kiss to the forehead. A small shake of his head. A tired smile. “Not tonight.”
Each rejection should’ve hurt. But it didn’t.
It burned.
It throbbed.
Something deep and wet bloomed every time he said no–every time he confirmed I wasn’t what he wanted. That he couldn’t even pretend anymore. That my body, my presence, my devotion wasn’t enough to stir his cock. The dismissal didn’t crush me–it made me ache.
He didn’t want me.
He pitied me.
And I came to that truth more than once, fingers curled between my thighs in the quiet of our marriage bed.
The nights he said yes were worse. Not because they felt empty–because they felt merciful. He’d fuck me gently, slow, careful like I was something delicate. A relic of a time he used to need. And I’d lie there, dripping with the sick joy of being pitied.
He’s only inside me because he feels bad.
And that thought alone was enough to push me over the edge while he quietly finished and rolled away.
But more than arousal, something else had begun to take root.
It wasn’t about me anymore. Not about saving our sex life or reigniting his passion. It was simpler than that.
He needed someone else.
Someone better.
Someone worth craving.
So I started looking.
Everywhere.
At the barista with the chipped black nails. At the girl behind me in line at Target with the short shorts and the flawless thighs. Even at my coworkers, laughing in the breakroom, heads tilted just right, lips made for gasps.
I wasn’t looking at women anymore. I was searching.
Would he enjoy fucking her?
Would he groan for her?
Would she be tight enough?
I’d catch glimpses of strangers out the window while stopped at a red light and picture Michael bending them over the hood. Imagine his hands spreading thighs that had never held stretch marks. Imagine his eyes finally lighting up again.
It was like trying to find a unicorn–something rare and magical that might not even exist.
And if I actually did find her?
I wouldn’t even know what to say.
“Hello, I’m Evelyn Castle, and my husband doesn’t want to ataşehir escort bayan fuck me anymore. Would you be interested in filling the role?”
God, it sounded ridiculous. But it still made my thighs clench.
At least I had the party to keep me busy.
It was our turn–finally. That’s what the group text had said. ‘Your pool, your grill, your playlist. Can’t wait!!!’ Always with too many exclamation marks.
This wasn’t a birthday or anniversary or holiday. It was just… tradition. A once-in-a-while thing passed around between six or seven couples in our orbit–mostly friends of friends, other business owners like us. The kind of people you only see at baby showers and end up talking to about tax brackets. Everyone brought beer or wine coolers and pretended they didn’t talk about work, even though they always did.
It was casual in that intentional way–expensive swimsuits meant to look cheap, old band tees that still smelled like dry-cleaning. We were all trying to look like we weren’t trying.
Between obsessing over strangers’ thighs and wondering how many fingers I could fit inside myself before I felt full, I’d managed to pull together something respectable. Enough throw pillows to look effortless. Enough drinks to keep the conversation loose.
I hunted in silence, smiled through brunch plans, and before I knew it…I was standing in my kitchen overlooking the party in full swing.
The men were all clustered around the grill, beers sweating in koozies, trading jokes that got louder with each bottle. Every single one of them wore some version of the same uniform–dad-plaid button-ups or solid polo shirts tucked into khaki shorts. Like the HOA handed out dress codes with the water bill.
The women had claimed the lounge chairs along the pool, half-submerged in the sun. Wide-brimmed hats tilted just so. Swimsuits covered by gauzy wraps or shawls, like the sheer fabric made their bodies less exposed. They watched the kids in the shallow end, half-interest, while they murmured about the last big deal, or their husbands’ golf swings, or whatever overpriced statement piece they’d bought for the lakehouse this season.
I couldn’t hear them from the kitchen, but I didn’t need to. I’d heard every version of those conversations a hundred times.
I arranged the lemonade on a tray–pitcher, glasses, slices of lemon curled like garnish–and let my eyes drift over the backyard. Every guest accounted for. Every body familiar.
Until she appeared.
She moved through the sunlight like it owed her something. Pale skin dusted with freckles. A pair of old Chucks hanging loosely from her fingertips until she tossed them carelessly aside.
Danielle Pierce.
Dani, as everyone used to call her.
I hadn’t seen her in years–not since she’d left for college out of state. But there she was, standing at the edge of the pool in a barely-there string bikini, dark hair damp and curling at the ends, eyeliner smudged just enough to look effortless. She was petite but plush in all the right places–full hips, thick thighs, and heavy breasts courtesy of good genetics, not the latest plastic surgeon.
She hadn’t grown out of her emo phase. She’d simply perfected it.
She didn’t look like the other women at the party. She looked like the girls Micheal watched online.
It didn’t make sense. Her parents weren’t here. They’d RSVP’d with regrets. I remembered it clearly. I’d made note of it while tallying chairs. So what the hell was–
“CANNONBALL!” she shouted, arms wide as she launched herself from the diving board into the deep end.
A burst of water crashed against the sides of the pool, splashing the women and knocking their sunglasses askew. The kids screamed with laughter. Someone groaned. One of the men muttered a half-hearted “hell yeah” before turning back to the grill.
But Michael was staring, adjusting the hem of his shirt as if that would hide anything. But it didn’t. I saw the way his jaw clenched. The flush rising in his neck.
I watched him from behind the safety of the kitchen glass. Watched the way his gaze lingered just a second too long before he forced it away. The way his lips pressed tight, like he could will the heat out of his face if he clenched hard enough.
He looked away, then looked back.
A sideways glance. A not-so-subtle adjustment of his stance. One hand tugging down the hem of his shirt again.
He didn’t want to stare. But he couldn’t help it.
And I couldn’t look away.
Dani pulled herself out of the pool in one fluid motion, droplets clinging to her skin like she was made of light. Her bikini stuck to her body like it belonged there–like it was part of her. The kind of second skin built for being watched.
She padded barefoot across the concrete, leaving wet footprints that shimmered in the sun as she made her way to the cooler. Bent slightly as she rummaged through the ice, then came up with a beer and popped the tab with practiced ease.
She didn’t return to the women at the poolside. She stood with escort ataşehir the men instead–laughing at their jokes, flicking water from her fingertips, letting her hand rest briefly on Michael’s shoulder as he said something that made her throw her head back and laugh.
He grinned. But not the way he smiled at me.
This one was crooked; a little shy, a little hungry.
Then she drifted back toward the pool, her hips swaying with unintentional rhythm. She sat on the edge and dipped her legs into the water, toes kicking up playful splashes that rained over the squealing kids. One of them squealed and splashed her back, and she laughed again–head tossed, eyes closed, throat exposed to the sun.
I imagined her head tossing back in ecstasy as she slowly sank onto Micheal’s rigid shaft, her hips moving in slow, deliberate circles. Her parted lips weren’t from laughing anymore–only spilling soft, breathless moans as she rode with quiet hunger.
I saw his hands cradling her chest, guiding one perfect tit towards his mouth, where he kissed and sucked her pink nipples like it was something he’d been starving for.
I was there–out of reach and forgotten–watching them fuck through a crack in the door. Soaking in every thrust, every moan, every drop of sweat.
That’s when I knew.
I had found my unicorn.
Not the glitter-and-rainbows kind. No. She was darker than that–wilder. The kind of creature ancient women whispered about in cautionary tales. Spellbound men. Broken women. A beauty so magnetic it bordered on cruelty.
Even now, she looked enchanted. Water kissed every inch of her–beads clinging to the soft slope of her stomach, trailing down the thick curves of her thighs. Her skin glowed, porcelain lit by sunlight, freckles like stardust scattered across her shoulders and chest.
She flicked her wet hair back and it clung for just a second before fanning out behind her like a mane. A slow-motion shimmer of movement and power and grace. Her arms reached behind her as she stretched, and the subtle definition of muscle flexed beneath soft flesh like a secret the rest of the world hadn’t earned the right to see.
I pictured her moving the same way above Michael. Fluid. Untamed. His hands gripping her waist not to guide her, but to hang on.
Something inside me twisted hard.
“Hot one today, huh?”
The voice snapped me out of it like a slap.
I flinched, and the tray jolted in my hands–ice clattered, and lemonade splashed across the counter, soaking into the hem of my blouse.
“Oh my god–I didn’t mean to scare you!” said the voice again–Claire. Damp shawl, one earring missing. She must’ve come in to grab a towel.
I blinked at her. My pulse was still in my throat.
“It’s fine,” I said too quickly. I tried for a smile. “I just–hot flash.”
She laughed lightly. A knowing, sympathetic sound. “Girl, I know all about those.”
I forced a chuckle. “Seriously. One minute I’m making lemonade, the next I’m boiling alive.”
She nodded, grabbed a towel from one of the oversized bags by the couch and turned back toward the patio. “I’ll save you a wine cooler.”
I muttered a thank-you and returned my attention to the tray. The lemonade had stopped sloshing, but my pulse hadn’t. Not even close.
The rest of the day passed like a dream.
Not the kind with clarity or plot, but the kind where everything blurs at the edges–warm and woozy, like the air had thickened with something only I could feel. Something heavy.
I moved through it on autopilot. Set out snacks. Refreshed drinks, made conversation I couldn’t remember the shape of afterward.
Because every time I looked up, Michael was looking at her.
Not openly. Not obviously. Just enough to make it feel secret. Forbidden. Delicious.
Sideways glances when she laughed too loud. The twitch of his jaw when she bent over to grab another wine cooler from the ice chest. That subtle tug at the front of his shorts when she wrung out her hair beside him and the droplets hit his arm.
I watched him watch her.
And I wondered if the others noticed. If anyone could see it–that quiet gravity pulling him away from me.
Could they guess?
Could they tell that I wasn’t enough?
I sipped my drink and smiled through small talk, let the sun move across the sky, and kept watching the space between them until the light began to change.
The golden hour melted into dusk. Kids were toweled off and packed into SUVs. Coolers emptied, folded chairs snapped shut. People filtered out in sleepy, beer-soft waves, offering the usual, “We’ll host next time,” and “Text me your playlist!” as they drifted toward the street.
And when I looked up again, we were alone.
Just the three of us–me, Michael, and Dani.
The patio had gone quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire pit. Someone had thrown in the last logs while we weren’t paying attention, and now the flames licked the sky in lazy ribbons.
We sat around it in a loose triangle. Our chairs angled slightly, knees drawn up, the last of the beer sweating in our hands.
No more cannonballs.
No more noise.
Just small talk in slow pulses–comments about the weather, old memories from high school, vague jokes about adulthood. Sometimes a full minute would pass without anyone saying a word. And still… no one moved to leave.
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