Hey again.
I wasn’t going to post more, but a few people wanted the next part.
So here’s how it went after that first night.
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I'll try to take my time explaining, so there might be more after. This explains 3/4 times he fucked her that led to… well once you read the fourth fuck you'll get it…
THE SECOND FUCK
It was about a week, probably less, after that first night when Caleb texted Sarah.
Round two?
I saw the text light up while she was folding laundry on the couch next to me.
She smiled when she read it.
Not in a "shocked" way.
In a way that looked almost… flattered.
She typed back quickly — faster than she usually answered me.
I just sat there, pretending I didn’t notice.
Sarah spent the next hour "cleaning up" around the house.
Mostly upstairs.
Mostly the bedroom.
I stayed downstairs, drinking coffee I didn’t want.
When she came back down, she was wearing black leggings and a hoodie.
No bra — you could tell by the way she moved.
Fresh makeup.
Lip gloss.
Hair brushed straight down her back.
She caught me looking at her and grinned a little.
"What?" she said, playful.
"Nothing," I mumbled.
She shrugged and went back to her phone.
Caleb showed up about an hour later.
Sarah practically skipped to the door when he knocked.
I stayed in the kitchen, pretending to check emails.
Heart pounding.
I could hear them talking at the door — Caleb's deep laugh, Sarah’s higher giggle.
Giggle.
Like a fucking teenager.
Sarah popped her head into the kitchen before they went upstairs.
"Hey," she said casually.
"We’re just… you know. Finishing the bet. Shouldn’t be too long."
I nodded.
Didn’t trust myself to speak.
She smiled like she was doing me a favor by explaining.
Then she was gone.
I sat there for a few minutes.
Hearing the muffled creak of footsteps overhead.
Doors shutting.
Then — the bed.
Soft at first.
Polite.
Then louder.
Rhythmic.
Inescapable.
Sarah's voice floated down the stairs:
"Mmm… fuck me, Caleb… fuck me harder…"
Soft at first.
Then sharper.
Then desperate.
Caleb grunted — low, rough, possessive.
The bedframe slammed against the wall.
Sarah gasped:
"Oh my God… you’re so much thicker than Henry…"
I staggered up to the bottom of the stairs without even realizing it.
Just listening.
Each thrust sounded like a hammer blow.
The wet, slapping sounds filled the house.
So did her moans.
Not careful moans.
Not guilty.
Hungry.
Loud.
Shameless.
"Fuck me! Yes, just like that! Oh my God… Caleb…!"
I sat on the bottom step, head in my hands.
Hearing my wife — the woman I thought loved me — getting ruined by my best friend.
Twenty minutes later.
I heard them come downstairs.
I stayed frozen in place.
Sarah walked by first, wearing only Caleb’s T-shirt.
Her thighs slick.
Her hair a mess.
No underwear.
She smiled at me — lazy, cocky.
"You’re not mad, right, babe?" she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder.
"It's just… finishing the bet."
She said it like she was explaining the weather.
I shook my head numbly.
"No, it’s fine," I muttered.
She smiled wider — almost pitying — and padded into the kitchen.
Caleb followed her into the kitchen a minute later, shirtless, wearing jeans slung low around his hips.
He didn’t even look at me.
Just grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped it open with his thumb, and came back into the living room.
Sarah followed him out and curled up on the couch, legs open lazily, and eventually giggling at something Caleb said.
I sat there, still on the bottom of the staircase, completely invisible.
Completely unnecessary.
Just a man on his own house, watching his wife flirt with the man who just finished fucking her upstairs.
Later, when Caleb left, Sarah found me in the bedroom folding laundry.
She dropped onto the bed behind me with a sigh.
"You’re being weird," she said, rolling onto her back and stretching.
"It’s not a big deal, Henry. It’s just sex. You agreed, remember?"
I nodded stiffly.
"Yeah. I remember."
She smiled again — that same soft, mocking smile — and rolled over, flashing her bare ass under the T-shirt as she dug through her phone.
Ten minutes later she was asleep.
Still smelling like Caleb.
The Third Fuck
It didn’t happen right away this time.
From what I remember, a few days after their second encounter — Caleb texted Sarah, said he was coming by.
She spent two hours getting ready.
Hair done.
Makeup perfect.
Shaved everything.
She wore a sundress that barely covered anything — no panties — just waiting.
And then Caleb bailed.
Last minute.
Some bullshit about a late golf meeting.
Sarah wasn’t happy.
She tried to play it off — laughing it away, saying it didn’t matter — but I could see it.
The way she paced around the kitchen.
The way she slammed drawers shut harder than usual.
The way she drank two glasses of wine in half an hour.
She wasn’t mad because he canceled.
She was mad because he didn’t put her first.
A few days later, no warning — Caleb pulled up in the driveway.
Sarah was already in that same sundress.
Still no panties.
Still no bra.
Still waiting.
She opened the door before he even knocked.
When she saw him, she smiled wide — big, bright, almost too eager.
No guilt.
Just need.
"Look who finally decided to show up," she teased, flipping her hair over one shoulder.
Caleb just grinned, lazy and arrogant:
"You’re lucky I came back for you, baby."
Sarah laughed — but there was a sharpness under it.
A little sting.
A little pride still left.
She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside.
I sat frozen on the couch, pretending to check my phone.
Sarah glanced at me briefly — a flicker of amusement — then turned back to Caleb.
They went upstairs.
Not bothering to close the door.
At first it was quiet.
Soft thuds.
Muffled laughter.
Sarah teasing him:
"Think you can handle me or are you gonna need to cancel again like a pussy?"
Caleb's low laugh:
"You’re cocky for bitch about to be broken"
Another thud.
Sarah gasping.
Then the shift.
Harder creaking.
Faster rhythm.
Sarah’s breathless moans filling the house.
"Fuck… Caleb…"
"Harder…"
Caleb’s voice, rough:
"You missed this dick, didn’t you?"
Sarah snapped back — still trying to hold some control:
"I only miss raw cocks, and haven’t won that bet yet, remember?"
Caleb grunted, thrusting deeper.
Sarah whimpered:
"Still have to wear a condom, big guy. I’m still a good girl."
She said it like a joke.
But you could hear the nervous edge underneath.
Caleb’s growl was low and threatening:
"We'll see about that."
The bed slammed the wall harder now.
Sarah’s moans sharper, louder.
Each thrust stealing a little more of her sarcasm.
Each slap pulling her deeper under him.
Caleb again, dark and rough:
"Who fucks you better, baby? Me or your weak little husband?"
Silence.
Sarah gasping.
Trying to hold on.
"Henry’s… Henry’s my husband…" she managed to choke out between thrusts.
A heavy slap across her ass.
Sarah cried out — high, broken.
Caleb snarled:
"That’s not what I asked."
Another brutal thrust — the bedframe cracking against the wall.
Sarah's voice broke:
"You… you fuck me better… Caleb…!"
That was it.
Her last defense shattered.
The rest of the fuck was a blur of noises — skin slapping, gasps, begging.
Sarah lost in it.
Gone.
An hour later.
They came back downstairs like nothing happened.
Sarah was wearing Caleb’s oversized T-shirt again.
No panties.
Her legs slick, shining under the living room lights.
Fresh bruises already blooming along her thighs.
Her cheeks pink from fresh, endless orgasms.
She didn’t even look at me, just walked over and sat back down on the couch next to me.
Her bare thigh brushing mine — still slick, still trembling faintly from upstairs.
She grabbed a beer from the table, took a sip, breathing hard.
The TV droned on in front of us.
Fake laughter.
Fake normalcy.