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Kristen emerged from the bathroom about ten minutes later, wrapped in a white towel that clung to her damp skin and reached only to mid-thigh. Her hair was soaked, dark strands plastered to her shoulders and upper back, dripping little trails of water that ran down her arms and legs. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, uneven red — the kind of color that could come from the hot shower, from the exertion of the run, or from something far more intimate that had just happened behind that closed door. She looked both radiant and slightly unsteady, like someone who had just run a second marathon in the same morning.
She paused in the hallway, one hand holding the towel closed at her chest, the other brushing wet hair away from her face. When her eyes met mine, there was a flicker — not quite guilt, not quite shame, but a brief, almost shy hesitation. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, then closed again. The flush on her cheeks deepened, spreading down her neck and across her collarbone.
I sat exactly where Brad had left me, still on the couch, hands resting limp on my thighs, the empty glass forgotten beside me. My cock had gone soft again, but the ache lingered, a dull throb that hadn’t gone away since the first wet sounds started drifting through the door. I looked at her — really looked — and saw everything I didn’t want to see: the slight swelling of her lips, redder than usual; the glassy brightness in her eyes; the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other like her thighs were still sensitive, still remembering the stretch of him inside her mouth.
She took a small step forward, towel slipping just a fraction so the top edge dipped low enough to show the upper curve of her breasts. She caught it quickly, clutched it tighter, but the movement only made her look more vulnerable, more exposed.
“Hey…” she said softly, voice a little hoarse, a little raw. “You okay?”
I nodded once. Couldn’t speak. Didn’t trust my voice not to crack.
Kristen bit her lower lip — the same lip that had just been stretched around Brad’s cock — and looked down at the floor for a second before meeting my eyes again. “I… I didn’t mean for it to go like that. It just… happened. He came in and… I don’t know. I couldn’t say no.”
She took another step closer, towel clutched in both hands now, knuckles white. The flush on her cheeks hadn’t faded; if anything it had deepened, spreading to her chest. She looked almost shy, almost apologetic, but there was something else underneath — satisfaction, maybe, or relief, or the afterglow of being thoroughly used and enjoyed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you heard. I tried to be quiet but… he’s… he makes it hard to stay quiet.”
She laughed once — small, nervous — then stopped when she saw my face. The laugh died in her throat.
“I still love you,” she said quickly, like she needed me to hear it. “I do. This… this thing with Brad… it’s different. It’s not instead of you. It’s just… more. I don’t know how to explain it.”
She shifted her weight again, thighs pressing together like she could still feel him there — in her mouth, on her tongue, down her throat. Her cheeks burned brighter. “I swallowed,” she added quietly, almost confessing. “All of it. He told me to show him first, then swallow. I did. It tasted… strong. Like him.”
She looked at me then, really looked, waiting for something. Anger, maybe. Tears. Anything.
I gave her nothing. I couldn’t. My throat was too tight, my chest too heavy, my mind too full of the sounds I’d heard: her gagging, her begging, her thanking him while she swallowed his cum.
Kristen’s eyes searched my face for a long moment. When she found no reaction, she let out a small, shaky breath. I finally managed to speak, the words scraping out of my throat like broken glass. “Why are
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