Burn Her

Burn her

The burn-the-bitch section was always the giveaway.

That's what the "loving wife" crowd called it -- the part in their fairy tales where the doting husband finally finds out she's been screwing the neighbor, or the pool boy, or his own brother, and then turns cold. Throws her out. Fucks her best friend. Gets a perfect, storybook revenge.

Neat. Clean. Satisfying.

Bullshit.

In real life, there's no scene. No dramatic reveal with her mascara running down her face while she begs you not to leave. There's no applause. Just the slow rot in your stomach as you realize you're sleeping next to someone who moaned harder for another man.

I knew. Because my wife, Emily, had been doing just that with my best friend, Mark.

The story I was reading now was a perfect example. Husband comes home early, catches his wife bouncing on his business partner, kicks her out that night, and immediately starts a torrid affair with the wife's younger sister. All wrapped up in 4,000 words.

The comments section was already full of the usual:

"Serves her right!"

"Loved the burn-the-bitch ending."

"More like this, please."

I scrolled down and started typing.

"Yeah, sure. Because life always works out so neatly. The truth? She'd cry, you'd forgive her, she'd do it again, and you'd still be the idiot paying her phone bill while she's sending nudes to another guy."

I hit post. My username was already on thin ice after my last account got nuked. I didn't care. These people deserved to be reminded that life didn't give you neat revenge arcs.

My phone buzzed on the desk.

EMILY: "Can you grab milk on the way home?"

Sure, I typed back.

I stayed at work until the building emptied. I wasn't avoiding her, I told myself -- just enjoying the quiet. The truth was, I couldn't stand walking in and seeing her on her phone, smiling that soft smile I used to get when we were first dating. Because now I knew exactly who she was smiling for.

The kitchen lights were on when I got home. Emily was leaning against the counter, phone to her ear.

"Oh, stop, Mark," she laughed. "You're terrible."

She glanced up, saw me, and covered the mouthpiece. "Hey, babe. Mark was just telling me about that thing at the gym--"

"Yeah," I muttered, shoving the milk into the fridge.

Her eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

She turned away, back to her call, her voice dropping to that tone she used when she didn't want me to hear.

Later, when she went upstairs to shower, I opened my laptop again.

Another private message was waiting for me from some guy named LovingHusband84:

"You always hate on the burn-the-bitch stories. Why? Cheating wife hit too close to home?"

I stared at the screen for a moment. Then I typed back:

"Yeah. She did. And trust me -- there's no perfect ending. Just a long, humiliating stretch of pretending you're fine while she laughs with the guy she's fucking."

I didn't hit send right away. Instead, I opened a blank document and wrote:

Mark. Emily. Couch. Her hand in his lap. My beer in my hand like an idiot.

The cursor blinked at me. I could still hear her laugh echoing in my head.

It's easy to lie to yourself in the beginning.

Back then, I told myself it was harmless. A joke. A bit of drunk silliness between friends.

It was two summers ago, during one of those sticky, heavy nights where beer sweats in your hand before you can take a sip. We were on the back deck -- me, Emily, and Mark -- working our way through a case of bottles and the last of the ribs from the grill.

Mark was telling one of his stupid gym stories, the kind where he flexed his biceps mid-sentence like the world was just waiting for a glimpse. Emily laughed harder than the story deserved, shaking her head.

"Oh, you're ridiculous," she said. "You know you only go to the gym for the mirror."

"Guilty," Mark grinned. "But hey, the mirror likes me back."

Before I could roll my eyes, Emily stood, crossed to him, and dropped herself onto his lap.

I froze.

"See?" she said, leaning back against his chest. "Perfect seat. Just enough muscle to be comfortable."

Mark's arms twitched like he didn't know whether to put them around her or keep them pinned to his sides. He looked over at me. "Hey, man, you okay with this?"

It was meant as a joke. I could hear it in his voice.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a laugh. "Just don't let her spill beer on you. She's clumsy when she's tipsy."

Emily grinned at me, as if to say see, you're not the jealous type. Then she turned back to him, still sitting there, still too close.

She stayed like that for another minute before hopping off and going inside to grab more drinks.

Mark smirked at me. "Relax. You know I'd never."

I wanted to believe him.

After that night, I started noticing little things.

Emily wearing tighter tank tops when she knew he was coming over.

The way she tilted her head when he talked, giving him her full attention.

Inside jokes they'd share right in front of me.

One Saturday, Mark dropped by unannounced while I was working in the garage. I walked into the living room and found Emily sitting cross-legged on the couch, phone in her lap, while Mark stood over her showing her something on his own phone. She laughed, touching his arm without even thinking about it.

"Hey, babe," she said when she saw me. "Mark was just telling me about this video--"

I nodded, pretending I didn't notice how quickly she pulled her hand back.

The first time I saw them really cross the line wasn't even in person.

It was on her phone.

Emily had left it on the counter while she went to take laundry out of the dryer. The screen lit up with a notification -- Mark sent you a photo. I didn't mean to pick it up, but my hand moved before I thought.

The picture was harmless enough -- him at the gym, shirtless, flexing in the mirror. But it was her reply underneath that stuck in my head:

"You're going to make me get in trouble."

Trouble. That word.

When she came back, I set the phone down like it was burning me. She didn't notice.

It kept building after that.

The three of us would hang out, and I'd catch her glancing at him when she thought I wasn't looking. Or I'd hear her phone buzz in bed late at night, and she'd roll over, hiding the screen.

One night, I came in from taking out the trash and heard them laughing in the kitchen. Mark was leaning against the counter, Emily standing between his knees as he sat on a stool. Not touching -- not yet -- but close enough.

When they saw me, Emily stepped back like the distance was suddenly important.

And then came the night that finally stripped away the last of my denials.

We'd all gone out to a bar downtown. Too many drinks, too loud music, too many bodies pressed together. I went to the bathroom, weaving my way through the crowd. When I came back, I couldn't find them at first.

Then I spotted them near the corner booth. Emily was sitting beside Mark, their knees pressed together. His hand was on her thigh. Not resting -- rubbing, slow.

Her eyes were half-lidded, that lazy smile on her lips.

I stopped in the crowd, just watching.

She didn't pull away.

When we got home that night, she pretended nothing had happened. Stripped out of her dress, tossed it over the chair, and climbed into bed. I stood there for a moment, looking at her bare back.

She turned her head. "You coming to sleep?"

I wanted to ask. I wanted to demand the truth.

Instead, I said, "Yeah," and climbed in beside her.

She curled up against me like she always did, her body warm, her breathing soft.

But all I could think about was the feel of Mark's hand on her thigh.

The night it happened, I wasn't supposed to be home.

Friday. I'd told Emily I was going for drinks with a client after work. The truth was, the meeting got canceled at the last minute, and instead of heading to the bar, I decided to surprise her. Maybe bring takeout, open a bottle of wine, try to remember what it was like before my marriage turned into a slow drip of suspicion.

I parked a street over -- no real reason, just habit from when I used to plan surprises for her. The house was dark except for the soft amber light spilling from the living room window.

As soon as I stepped up to the porch, I heard it.

A laugh. His laugh.

And then hers -- low, breathless, the kind of laugh you give when your body's already half-gone with desire.

I froze at the door. My first instinct was to walk in, make a noise, let them know I was there. But something rooted me to the spot. Some mix of dread and... something darker.

I eased the door open, just an inch.

The couch faced away from the entryway, toward the TV. All I could see at first was the back of Mark's head. Then he shifted, and Emily's bare legs came into view -- spread, knees bent, her dress bunched up around her waist.

Mark was on his knees between them.

Her head was tilted back, mouth open, one hand in his hair, the other gripping the cushion. Her toes curled as his shoulders moved.

"Ohhh... fuck... Mark..." she gasped.

My pulse hammered in my ears. I should have stopped it. Should have stormed in, should have done anything but stand there.

But I didn't move.

Her hips lifted, chasing his mouth. I could hear the wet sounds -- obscene, rhythmic.

He pulled back, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "God, you taste better than I remembered."

She laughed breathlessly. "Shut up and fuck me."

Mark stood, undoing his belt with one hand while he pulled her dress over her head with the other. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her nipples were already tight, and she rolled them between her fingers as he dropped his pants.

When he pushed into her, she moaned -- louder than I'd heard in years.

"Oh God... yes... just like that..."

I gripped the edge of the doorframe so hard my knuckles ached. I could see his back flexing, the muscles in his arms as he held her hips. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her thighs tightening around him.

The couch creaked with their rhythm.

"You're so fucking tight," he groaned.

"Harder," she panted. "Please, Mark... harder."

He slammed into her, making her cry out -- the sound hitting me like a knife. That was the voice she used to have for me. Now it was his.

They moved like they'd done it a hundred times -- no fumbling, no hesitation. She knew exactly how to rock against him, when to clutch his hair, when to arch her back so her breasts pressed into his chest.

"Don't stop," she gasped, her heels digging into the cushions. "Don't you dare stop--"

Her whole body tensed, then shuddered as she came, pulling him with her. He cursed low and deep, burying himself in her with one last thrust.

For a few moments, they just lay there, catching their breath.

Finally, she whispered, "We shouldn't be doing this."

He laughed. "Yeah. And?"

She smiled, pulling him back down to kiss her.

I eased the door shut, my hands shaking.

In the kitchen, I stood in the dark for a long time, staring at the takeout bag in my hand. Eventually, I set it on the counter, slipped out the back door, and drove.

I didn't remember where I went. Just that I didn't come home until after midnight, when the living room was dark and the couch cushions were back in place.

She was asleep in bed, her body warm when I slid in beside her.

"Hey," she murmured, half-awake.

"Hey," I said, my voice even.

She curled against me like nothing had happened.

But I could still hear her voice in my head -- breathless, begging him for more.

By the time I sat down at my laptop, the memory of that night was clawing at the back of my skull again.

The Literotica homepage was glowing in the dark office, the screen bathing my hands in light. Another "loving wife" story was at the top of the feed -- She Chose Me Over Him. The description promised, A cheating wife comes crawling back, begging forgiveness.

I clicked it.

The setup was predictable: husband suspects his wife, catches her in the act, throws her out, then -- after a single page of "emotional turmoil" -- she's on her knees apologizing, swearing she was drunk and confused. He forgives her, and they have mind-blowing make-up sex that, of course, is better than anything she had with the other guy.

Burn the bitch, then take her back. A tidy loop.

I scrolled to the comments. The regulars were already there:

"Perfect ending. Shows her who's boss."

"Loved the burn-the-bitch scene, then the makeup sex. HOT."

"This is how real men handle cheating wives."

I started typing before I could stop myself:

"Yeah, real men forgive a woman who screamed another man's name while she came. Real men take her back after she's had his cock in her mouth. Sure. Great fantasy. Real life? Once you've heard her moan for someone else, that sound never leaves your head. Doesn't matter how good the makeup sex is -- you're just her safety net."

Posted.

A reply popped up within minutes.

HotwifeFan: "Sounds like you've been burned, man. But not every cheating wife story is fake. Some women regret it and want to make it right. You gotta give them a chance."

I could feel my jaw tightening.

I typed back: "A chance to what? Compare us? Keep me around for bills and security while she gets her real orgasms somewhere else? You ever actually lived through it, or do you just jerk off to the idea?"

He came back fast: "If you handled her right, she wouldn't need someone else."

That one made me laugh -- the short, sharp kind that's more like spitting.

"Right. So it's my fault Mark had his face between her thighs on my couch. Maybe I wasn't alpha enough? Or maybe she's just a selfish slut who wanted two men to orbit her. I've read enough of these burn-the-bitch fantasies to know they leave out the part where she still fucks him on the side."

Another user jumped in -- LovingHusband84, the same one who messaged me before.

"You've got a chip on your shoulder the size of Texas. You sound like you're writing from personal experience. Spill it."

I stared at that for a moment, fingers hovering over the keys.

Then I typed: "Personal experience? Try walking in on your best friend's tongue in your wife's cunt. Try hearing her beg him for more while you're in the next room. Then tell me about your perfect happy ending. Spoiler: there isn't one."

Posted.

The replies came in fast after that. Some were defensive -- "Not all wives are like that", "Sounds like you're just bitter". Others wanted details -- "What did she say? How did you catch them?".

Part of me wanted to log off. The smarter part of me knew I'd feel worse if I stayed.

But my fingers kept moving. I told them about the way she moaned for him, how she held his head when he was between her legs, how she pulled him down to kiss her after he came inside her.

I didn't even bother changing the names.

Emily's voice broke the trance. "You still up?"

I minimized the screen, the comments vanishing. "Yeah. Just... reading."

She padded into the office wearing one of my old shirts, the hem just brushing her thighs. She leaned against the doorway.

"You coming to bed?"

For a moment, I imagined saying Yeah, right after I tell a bunch of strangers online how you fuck Mark. Instead, I just nodded and shut the laptop.

But when I lay beside her in the dark, my mind didn't quiet. I thought about all those burn-the-bitch stories ending with the wife kneeling in front of the husband, eyes wet with tears and lust. I thought about how the readers ate it up.

And I thought about how in real life, the only kneeling Emily had done lately was in front of Mark.

It was a Tuesday.

Nothing about the day should've stood out -- work was boring, traffic was normal, and I came home earlier than usual because the client call I'd been stuck in ended ahead of schedule. Emily thought I'd be in meetings until seven.

Mark's truck was in the driveway.

That was the first sign. He never came over unless I was home, or so I thought.

I stepped inside quietly, telling myself maybe he'd just dropped something off. But the moment I crossed the threshold, I heard it -- low, muffled sounds from the living room.

Not the TV. Not talking.

A wet rhythm, matched with Emily's breathless gasps.

When I turned the corner, there was no mistaking it.

Emily was on her knees on the couch, arms braced against the backrest, hair falling into her face. Mark was behind her, pants shoved down just enough, hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks.

The sound of him fucking her was obscene -- the slap of skin, her muffled moans each time he pushed into her.

Neither of them saw me at first. My shoes didn't even creak on the floor. I just stood there, watching like I was rooted to the spot.

Emily threw her head back, her voice breaking. "Oh, fuck... harder, Mark..."

He grunted, slamming into her.

I could see every detail -- the way her back arched, the flush across her shoulders, the tight grip of his hands. She wasn't holding back, wasn't trying to be quiet.

And that's when she spotted me.

Her eyes went wide, mouth falling open -- but instead of scrambling away, she just froze, still on her knees, with him still inside her.

Mark looked over his shoulder, face flushed. "Shit."

I should have yelled. Should have hit him, hit something, anything. But my voice came out cold.

"Don't stop on my account."

Emily swallowed hard. "It's not what it looks like--"

"Really?" I said. "Because it looks like my wife's getting fucked by my best friend."

Mark stepped back, pulling out of her. His cock glistened in the dim light, and I hated how my eyes noticed the size, the thickness -- details I couldn't unsee.

Emily's dress was bunched at her waist, her panties on the floor. She tugged the skirt down, as if that could make it less real.

Mark started to say something, but I cut him off. "You should leave."

He hesitated, glancing at Emily, then back at me. "Look, man--"

"Now."

He grabbed his pants, yanked them up, and left without another word.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

Emily stood, smoothing her dress, not meeting my eyes. "I can explain--"

I laughed, sharp and humorless. "Explain what? That it's been going on longer than I think? That it's not serious? That you still love me?"

She bit her lip, silent.

I stepped closer. "You moaned his name, Emily. You never moan mine like that anymore."

Her chin trembled. "It's not just about the sex."

"Oh, so it's worse," I said.

She sat down on the couch -- the same couch I'd just seen him fucking her on -- and for a second I imagined the heat still lingering in the cushions.

Her voice was soft. "Mark... makes me feel wanted."

I stared at her. "You think I don't?"

"It's different," she said. "With you, it's... safe. With him, it's--"

"Dangerous?" I snapped. "Exciting?"

She didn't answer, but I saw it in her eyes.

That night, I didn't sleep. I lay beside her in bed, her back to me, listening to her breathing. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her bent over the couch, Mark's hands on her hips. Heard her voice urging him to fuck her harder.

When the sun came up, I'd already decided I wasn't done making her squirm -- but I wasn't ready to leave. Not yet.

We didn't talk the morning after.

Not when we brushed our teeth side by side, not when she buttered her toast, not when I left for work.

It wasn't until that evening, when I found her sitting on the couch with her knees pulled to her chest, that she finally spoke.

"I'm not going to lie to you," she said quietly.

I leaned against the doorway. "Then don't."

She took a breath. "Mark and I... it's been going on for about six months."

The number landed like a stone in my gut. "Six months," I repeated.