Mark's foot never left the brake pedal. The porch light stayed black, the house a low, breathing animal behind the curtains. His hand was still clamped around his cock, slick and cooling, when the phone in the cupholder lit up like a flare.
Sarah's name. FaceTime.
He stared at it the way a man stares at a loaded gun. The ringtone was the same one she'd picked the week they got married—some sappy Ed Sheeran thing that used to make him grin. Now it scraped his nerves raw. He thumbed accept before the coward in him could hang up.
The screen filled with heat and motion. Dana's face first, upside-down, grinning like a cat who'd swallowed the whole damn aviary. She flipped the camera. Sarah's thighs filled the frame, trembling, slick with sweat and something thicker. Marcus's hips snapped forward—slow, deliberate, the kind of rhythm that said I own this. The phone wobbled; Dana's laugh vibrated through the speaker.
"Hi, honey," Sarah panted. Her voice cracked on the last syllable as Marcus bottomed out. "You still in the driveway?"
Mark's mouth opened. Closed. The minivan smelled like vinyl and his own panic.
Dana tilted the lens lower. Sarah's pussy stretched wide around Marcus, lips flushed dark, a creamy ring already forming at the base. Every thrust pushed another bead of it out, dripping onto the couch cushion. Dana's free hand appeared, two fingers scooping the mess, painting it up Sarah's clit in lazy circles.
"Tell her," Dana purred. "Tell your wife what a good little cuck you are."
Mark's cock jerked in his fist, traitorously hard again. He couldn't see Sarah's face—just her legs, her belly heaving, the lemon dress bunched under her tits like a surrender flag. Marcus's hand came into view, thumb pressing into the soft spot above Sarah's mound, pinning her so he could grind deeper.
"I—" Mark's voice cracked like a teenager's. "I love you."
Sarah laughed, breathless, broken. "Louder, baby. He can't hear you over the sound of his balls slapping my cervix."
Dana zoomed out just enough to catch Sarah's face—flushed, mascara streaked, eyes glassy with lust. She looked straight into the camera, straight at Mark, and mouthed watch.
Marcus pulled out slow. The head of his cock glistened, obscene, before he flipped Sarah onto her stomach. Dana followed the motion like a cinematographer, phone steady. Sarah's ass lifted, back arched, offering. Marcus slapped it once—sharp, wet crack—and Sarah moaned into the cushion.
"Tell him what you need," Dana said.
Sarah turned her cheek to the lens. "I need him to breed me, Mark. I need him to fill me up so deep it leaks for days. You'll taste it when you kiss me goodnight."
Mark's hand moved without permission, stroking again, shame burning hot in his throat. The camera dipped. Dana's tongue dragged up Sarah's slit, collecting the mess, then angled the phone so Mark could see her swallow.
"See?" Dana said. "That's what your marriage tastes like now."
Marcus slid back in—one smooth, claiming thrust. Sarah's cry muffled into the couch. Dana propped the phone against a throw pillow, hands free. She straddled Sarah's back facing the camera, reached between Marcus's legs, and cupped his balls, rolling them gently as he fucked.
"Eyes on me, cuck," Dana said. "Watch how a real man handles your wife."
Mark couldn't blink. Couldn't breathe. The minivan windows fogged; the street outside disappeared. Onscreen, Dana leaned forward, blonde hair spilling, and spat on Marcus's shaft as it pistoned in and out. Sarah's moans climbed higher, frantic.
"I'm close," Sarah gasped. "God, I'm—"
Marcus growled, hips stuttering. Dana's fingers flew to Sarah's clit, rubbing vicious circles. Sarah came with a sob, whole body shaking, pussy clenching visibly around Marcus. He buried himself deep and held—veins in his neck standing out, jaw clenched. The camera caught the pulse in his cock, the way Sarah's thighs quivered with every spurt.
Dana picked the phone up again, close enough that Mark saw the sweat beading on Sarah's lower back. She zoomed in on the place they were joined—Marcus still inside, softening slowly, cum already seeping out in thick rivulets.
"Say thank you," Dana instructed.
Sarah's voice was hoarse. "Thank you for sharing me, honey. Thank you for letting him ruin me."
Marcus pulled out with a wet sound. Dana tilted the phone down. A river of white poured from Sarah's swollen pussy, pooling on the cushion. Dana dipped two fingers, brought them to the lens, and smeared the mess across the screen like finger paint.
Mark came without warning—hot, helpless spurts across his hoodie, his wrist, the steering wheel. The phone shook in his other hand. Dana's laugh was soft, almost fond.
"Good boy," she said. "Now come inside. Door's unlocked. We're just getting started."
The call ended.
The screen went black, reflecting Mark's face—eyes wide, mouth slack, cum cooling on his skin. Through the windshield, the porch light flickered back on, a single bulb glowing like an eyeball.
Somewhere inside, Sarah moaned again—different pitch, hungrier.
Mark's keys were still in the ignition. His jeans were around his ankles. The welcome mat waited ten steps away.
He reached for the door handle.