The Luckiest Guy

Scene opens on Vanessa and Carl sitting at a restaurant booth, drinks nearly drained, plate of picked-over dinner between them. She's leaning in close, fingers tracing his wrist, joking about that time they fucked on a vineyard tour. He keeps grinning but his hands stay clamped between his knees, cheeks pink. The waiter strolls up, asks how they are, if they want seconds. Vanessa smiles, touches her ring, says it is their fifth anniversary. He offers more, and Carl starts to wave him off. Vanessa stares the waiter dead in the eye and mouths "your dick." Then she grabs a breadstick, licks the tip slow, like she's daring him to blink. The poor guy almost drops his tablet. Carl still hasn't noticed. The chat zig-zags to marriage length: "five years," they answer together. Vanessa pauses just long enough to drop the line "traditional gift? wood." Her gaze flicks down to the waiter's crotch, tells him she wants it badly. Brayden coughs, eyes darting to the cuck beside her. Carl just laughs that Vanessa bought him a carved chess set. "Luckiest guy alive." She beams, pats his shoulder, then stands up to go powder her nose. Quirks an eyebrow and tells Brayden to top up his glass "so my man doesn't get lonely." The second she hits the bathroom, she holds the door half-open behind her. Brayden explodes through it, grabs her ass with both hands. Mouths lock fast, unzipping is frantic; he spins her to face the sink and slams into her pussy from behind, hips slapping loud enough to drown the pipes. The sex is hard, soaked with that quickie frenzy that means they do not care if the whole restaurant hears her. Carl raps on the door asking if she is okay. Brayden freezes, cock buried balls-deep; Vanessa just smirks, tells her husband, voice syrupy sweet, that everything's fine, be out in a second. Waits until the footsteps fade then shoves back harder against the waiter. He groans a half-second before unloading, filling her without warning. The sudden flush of cum turns her mouth into a tight line. She pushes off, yanks paper towels, cleans herself complaining. No sale, Brayden mutters, you never said stop. She snaps at him to shut the fuck up and bolts. By the time she reaches their table her smile is perfect again. She asks if he is ready to head home. He beams, clueless. Later, in their own bedroom, Carl rolls between her legs and fucks her slow. Everything smell of clean sheets and obsession—vanishing traces neither of them will name. She gives him the cum-drunk moans he believes are all his. He still does not know he's simply the last visitor of the night.