"Faithful in All the Wrong Ways."

The couple added me to a group chat through one of those common social media apps I regularly use, same as 2 billion monthly active users. I'd only ever been online acquaintances with them, casually chatting here and there over the past couple of years, nothing more. We have often engaged in casual conversations about random topics like books and maybe lightweight political scandal opinions, but mostly funny videos to laugh about.

At some point, the guy started messaging me directly--still using the same strategy: funny videos, sometimes veering into very spicy ones. It was a little weird at first... but I wasn't going to lie to myself pretending that I was offended. I liked that he did.

What he didn't know was that I'd already been lurking on his profile more often than I care to admit. I had a soft spot for his workout posts--especially that rare tattoo sleeve not many would dare to get. And his sense of humor? Sharp. Unexpected. The kind that made you feel seen and slightly off balance in the best way.

"I wanted to set a boundary--I swear. In my mind, texting him something casual like, 'You and your girlfriend seem really cool, we should all grab coffee sometime' would make that clear. A friendly nod to the couple, a compliment, nothing more. It was my way of saying, 'If you are planning to cheat on your girl with me, I'm not interested,' even though, secretly, I was fine just enjoying the fantasy of him on my own.

But instead of backing off, he took it as encouragement. Next thing I knew, he was suggesting we set up that coffee date--just the three of us--sooner rather than later.

That's when I got the hint--they wanted a threesome. Shit.

I wasn't just desired by one person... but two. And the jolt of excitement that rushed through me made it hard to pretend I didn't feel it.

I'd been in threesomes before, years ago. After I grew the balls to tell my husband I was casually into girls, and he finally understood, we started to be more adventurous, playful--it was fun, fulfilling, even. Becoming those freer, less judgmental versions of ourselves only pulled us closer--and for a fleeting, blissful stretch of time, we felt untouchable.

But over time, age and responsibility crept in like slow rot, turning sex more vanilla than I wanted, and making our encounters less frequent--and far less daring. Only mentioning girls during foreplay--talking about our fantasies--didn't spark the same fire I was craving. And no, I wasn't placing the blame entirely on either of us.

Maybe it's because I've become more aware lately--about life in general, about time slipping through my fingers. About the fact that my child-free years were quietly coming to an end. People kept asking when we'd start trying, and my mother, bless her, never missed a chance to remind me I was over thirty--and that the longer I waited, the harder it would get.

Maybe because my husband was always stressed about work and money, but our life as a couple was fading. The desire between us was very hard to find, and I felt like I didn't turn him on anymore. No matter how sexy I dressed or the spicy topics I wanted to have with him, it always felt like a failure.

I was getting tired and most of the time insecure. Not only about our relationship, but the fact that my body was changing, and I'd gained weight. And maybe that was the reason why I just wanted to escape sometimes. I was constantly living on the verge of being grateful for everything I had and the urge to run from it in equal measure.

However, I gently declined the threesome proposition. I refused to be driven by lust, standing my ground that my morals and loyalty to my husband outweighed the thrill of an affair... or so I thought.

They both understood. Even though nothing happened, we agreed we should still meet up for coffee--for real this time. We'd been online acquaintances for so long, we kind of owed it to ourselves. And honestly, the idea of laughing about the whole thing in person sounded fun. Harmless.

But then I did something I didn't have to do.

I kept talking to him.

The tattooed boy made it clear--he was into me. And despite all my good intentions, I started following that thirst trap like a moth circling too close to the flame. It wasn't just the flirty reels or the subtle compliments. It was the way he messaged me late at night. How he remembered little things I'd said weeks ago. How he made me feel seen--desired in a way I hadn't felt in a while.

And that was dangerous--because I liked it so fucking much, it gave me anxiety.

The guilt crept in, slow and sharp--like something clawing at the inside of my chest. I felt unfaithful. I hated myself for still texting him. I felt bad for his girlfriend. Worse for my husband. And yet... I couldn't stop.

I felt like a junkie--hooked on the hit, fully aware it was wrong, but too far gone to care.

He started posting videos, which I knew were intended for me. Showing off at the gym, lifting his shirt, making me drool over those clips, until a sudden picture, yes, one of those that will erase after one glance, popped up in our chat.

The picture was taken from his bed. The very same bed he shared with his girl, but this time he was profaning that temple just because of me. It was from his chest down, abs tight, muscles flexing, one hand gripping the thick outline of his bulge beneath his boxers. Even though his cock was covered, I could see it. Hard. Desperate. The fabric was straining, begging to be pulled down. The tent in his briefs--thick, full, voluptuous--left little to the imagination.

And yet I stared, breath caught, fingers tingling. One glance. That's all I got, but it was enough to wreck my evening.

I was home alone, just chilling with Salem--my cat. She loved curling up on my feet while I lay in bed, scrolling through my phone with a glass of wine in hand, doing absolutely nothing. But this time, I had to avoid the thought of being an awful parent, and had to scare her away, locking myself in the room, taking advantage of my solitude.

It wasn't hard to feel the mood. Mostly since we started our clandestine conversations, I was a walking, dripping being, so I didn't pay attention to finding my panties soaking wet. My nipples were so stiff, just brushing the fabric of my oversized shirt against them made my whole body jolt--pleasure crackling like electricity under my skin.

I slipped two fingers into my mouth, swirling them slowly--deliberately--coating them with my saliva. There was something about touching my lips that always turned me on. It felt sensual, indulgent... dirty in the most delicious way.

And as I sucked on my fingers, I couldn't help but imagine doing the same to his cock.

Kneeling in front of him, tugging down his boxers to finally unravel him, thick, hard, and ready for me. I pictured myself dragging my tongue over the swollen head, slow and messy, just to hear him fucking growl. God, I'd love to see that--his head thrown back, jaw slack, eyes barely open, lips parted while I took every inch of him into my mouth.

My lips wrapped tightly around his cock, sliding down until the path of his veins etched themselves into my throat, feeling him twitch. Up and down. Slow at first, then deeper--letting him feel the heat, the control.

Right when he was close, hips tensing, breath stuttering--I'd pull off, spit still clinging to my chin.

"Not yet," I'd whisper.

"Now it's my fucking turn."

So when I was done teasing myself there, I let those same fingers trail down--slow and steady--until they reached the space between my legs, where I already ached for more.

I closed my eyes. Because I wanted to picture his face if he was thrusting into me, bracing my bed sheets with the same strength I saw him lifting weights in the videos of his feed. Early that same day, he had texted me ''good girl'' because he was a tease and he knew I liked it. So I imagined him calling me that, his voice curling in my ear, and the heat of his body pressing mine while I touched myself underneath my shirt.

I wasn't going to use any toy this time. I wanted to make this last as long as possible, and in my case, vibrators were good for quickies, for these fingers knew the real deal all too well. They knew the rhythm, the pressure, the build... they knew me. So I went straight to my clit--already swollen and warm, begging for attention. I teased the slick, sensitive skin around it, dragging my fingertips up and down the damp heat at an excruciatingly slow pace. And the entire time, I kept picturing him. His voice. His hands. His weight pinning me down while calling me the filthy things that put me to the edge.

What if we actually did it?

What if he was right there, between my legs--gripping his cock and dragging the head of it in slow, deliberate circles over my soaking pussy without ever pushing in? Just staying there, teasing me--making me feel every second of restraint.

Kissing down my neck, swirling his tongue around my nipples until I was writhing underneath him, whispering "please" like it was the only word I knew.

And just when I finally cracked--when I screamed his name and moaned out "Daddy"--he'd hush me with a smirk, his mouth hot against my ear.

"Shhh... we could get caught," he'd whisper, "unless you want them to hear how desperate you are for me."

"Fuck!" I couldn't help but moan out loud.

My mind was a terrible place--and God, I loved how fucked up I was. The more inappropriate the fantasy got, the hotter it made me. There was no denying it now--I thrived on the wrongness of it all.

What if he turned me around--ass up, back arched for him--and growled that my wet little pussy was so fucking ready for him? And then he grabbed me by the neck, firm--his thick bicep wrapping around my throat like my favorite kind of collar.

No more teasing. No more waiting.

He slammed into me in one deep, desperate thrust. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, his hips snapping into mine while I moaned shamelessly, begging for more.

He had me pinned, shaking, lost in the brutal rhythm of his cock and the filthy praise spilling from his mouth.

"That's it, baby. That's my good girl."

And fuck, I was--his good girl, ruined and loving every second of it.

Oh, God, I was going to.

"Fuck," I moaned--no, screamed--my back arching off the bed, eyes squeezed shut like I couldn't breathe.

But it wasn't panic. It was bliss.

That kind of breathless high where your body forgets how to function, and somehow, that loss of control feels calming. Like being wrecked was exactly what I needed. Maybe this would ease the craving.

Maybe touching myself to the thought of my tattooed boy would be enough...

But for how long?

The light tilted on my phone. A notification.

There it was--another message from him:

Be a good girl and send me a picture of those fingers wrapped in your cum.

Shit.

I was fucked all over again.