She glances at me and heads for the door.
Her shirt is light blue—soft, loose, but short. That modern cropped cut that shows just a hint of her stomach when she moves. Nothing dramatic. Just enough. She’s wearing black underwear underneath. Simple. Not fancy. But somehow that makes it even more real. Like she didn’t dress up for a stranger—she just dressed as herself.
She opens the door.
He walks in.
Tall, composed. Not trying to impress anyone—he just owns his presence. His eyes flick to her body, then her face. They hug. It’s casual. Natural. But close.
Then he walks past her, like he already knows his place in this room.
He sits down — on our couch.
And that’s when it shifts.
She turns to sit next to him, but before she can, he reaches out and pulls her onto his lap. No warning. Just direct.
She gives a small laugh, surprised. Her knees straddle his hips, arms loop around his shoulders.
Then she looks at me.
One quick glance. A little smirk. Not asking permission—just checking in. Like “is this okay?” or maybe “wow, this is actually happening.”
I don’t move.
He has one hand on her lower back. The other slides down, resting on her ass. Holding her there. Close.
They look at each other. Their heads close. Her smile fades into something quieter—focused.
I catch myself breathing shallowly.
She leans in first. Just a few centimeters. Then he meets her, and their lips touch.
Soft at first. Slow.
Then deeper.
Her hand slips into his hair. His thumb brushes along her thigh. Their kiss grows longer, heavier. And I’m right here—sitting at the edge of the couch, watching my girlfriend melt into someone else’s arms.
It’s surreal.
It’s beautiful.
And it’s turning me on more than I was ready for.
But it’s nothing like porn.
There’s no skip button here. No fast-forward. No control.
You just sit with it—every second stretched out, every breath real, and all you can do is take what you’re given.
My hand slides down, instinctively. Just resting. Palming over the front of my jeans. I don’t even realize I’m doing it at first—just trying to quiet the tension building in me. But it’s not quieting. It’s growing.
He lifts the hem of her shirt, inch by inch. She raises her arms. Underneath—black lace. The one I bought her.
He doesn’t rush. His lips return to hers, then trace along her jawline, her neck. Lower. His mouth brushes over the top of her chest, and I see her fingers tighten slightly on his shoulder.
Then he kisses her breasts. Through the lace at first. Then under it.
She closes her eyes. Her hips shift in his lap.
And I’m still watching.
Still hard.
Still part of this—just from the outside now.
This is the moment I fantasized about so many nights. Her with someone else. The sounds. The heat. Her body exposed to another man while I’m right there.
But I never imagined how real it would feel.
How sharp.
How much I’d want it… and want to stop it… at the same time.
And I can’t tell where those feelings end and the arousal begins.
Because this isn’t pretend anymore.
It’s her.
It’s him.
And I’m watching it happen.