Tell Me Everything

Angela White strolls in at sunrise, heels dangling from her fingers. She’s trying to slip into the bedroom like she didn’t do anything. April is already awake, eyes narrow, waiting. April’s been stewing for hours. She fires off questions. Where were you? Who were you with? Angela answers every one, voice smooth but every word fake as hell. April knows every lie—fuck, she’s her wife—but plays it cool. She shrugs and says, “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.” That’s when Angela buckles. The guilt hits and she lets the whole night spill out. First thing out: the crew hired strippers. April curls her lip in disgust. Then Angela owns that the strippers rubbed their asses all over her, and that the women knew exactly how to dry hump the cash right off her lap. April’s suspicion shoots to green light. “Tell me the rest,” April demands. Angela clears her throat. One dancer yanked out a thick two-headed dildo and shoved it straight between them, April’s fingers sneak lower, rubbing her pussy in tight little circles. Angela watches her wife start to soak her own hand, and the guilt fades. When April nods that she actually likes the story, Angela leans in, tasting her earlobe while she describes riding reverse cowgirl, bodies jerking and slapping, the sloppy noise of the double-ended toy pushing in wet holes. She doesn’t hold back—the dancer’s moans, her squirting when she came, leaving Angela’s lace panties a ruined mess she still wore back in the Uber. By the last detail Angela is mouth-to-mouth with April, palms cupping April’s tits through a thin tank top. April doesn’t care what Angela did. When she bends over the mattress, drenched and shaking, she whispers that she only cares Angela came home to her. Fuck, she whispers, now finish the job. Angela yanks down April’s wet sleep shorts and sinks in, proving it with every thrust that this cunt is the one she returns to every single time.