Earlier today, I was halfway through a soccer match, half-bored, scrolling on my phone between plays. Nothing unusual.
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Then I heard the heels. That slow, sharp click… click… click from the hallway.
I looked up.
She stood there like a fucking dream. Black lace bra barely covering her nipples, sheer garter belt hugging her waist, matching thong, thigh-highs strapped tight… and those stilettos, the ones she never wears for me. Her hair down, lips painted deep red, skin glowing.
I sat up. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t answer.
She turned around slowly, gave me a view of her ass swallowed by that little strip of lace, and said, calm as ever:
“Clip these for me, baby.”
I was frozen. She stepped closer, lifted her leg onto the coffee table right in front of me. I reached out, barely breathing, and clipped the garter to her stocking. My hands brushed her inner thigh. She didn’t flinch.
“He’s on his way.”
My stomach dropped.
She straightened up, turned to face me with a smirk that already knew what I’d do.
“You’ll be in the guest room tonight,” she added. “Door open.”
I just stared at her, like maybe if I said nothing, this wouldn’t be real. But it was.
“Go now,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “I want him to know you’re listening.”
So here I am. Sitting in the guest room, door cracked open, hard as fuck. I can hear her in the bedroom, playing music, pouring a glass of wine, setting the scene, not for me.
I keep checking my phone, even though I already know. He’s coming. She’s wet. And I’m about to hear the woman I love get wrecked by the man she chose for tonight.
She didn’t wear those heels for me. She wore them for him.