When my wife Alisa and I were in our twenties, our relationship was built on adventure—both emotional and physical. Alisa, South Asian with striking curves that always drew attention, had a bold confidence that I found magnetic. We’d long since established certain boundaries in our open dynamic: she could kiss other men, even tease a little—but anything more was off-limits, at least by mutual agreement. Only the tip, nothing deeper. It was a strange rule, maybe, but it made sense to us.
One weekend, we were invited to a house party by a group of her old friends. I picked out her outfit: a dangerously short skirt that clung to her hips, thigh-high stockings, a low-cut top—and no underwear. She smiled at me knowingly when she slipped it all on, loving the thrill of exposure.
As soon as we walked through the door, heads turned. The house had a rough, edgy vibe—music loud, air thick with smoke and tension. Alisa’s friends—four tall, imposing guys—greeted her with open arms. Without hesitation, she ran to them, giggling as she kissed each one playfully. I followed behind, but they barely acknowledged me.
One of them slid his hand around her waist, down to her bare ass. I tried to keep it cool. “Want to grab a drink?” I asked, trying to re-center her attention.
She didn’t respond—just laughed and let them guide her toward the hallway. Toward the bedroom.
The music drowned out most things, but even so, occasional sounds floated through—moans, laughter, a rhythm of pleasure that made my stomach knot. People glanced at me, eyes flickering with amusement or pity. I stayed, frozen in place for what felt like hours.
When Alisa finally reappeared, her makeup was smudged, her hair tousled. She looked dazed but radiant. I noticed the trail down her inner thigh and felt a punch of betrayal and arousal all at once.
"You didn’t...," I started, voice tight.
She glared. “Don’t accuse me of cheating. You said I could play.” Then she turned on her heel. “Go home if you want. I’ll make my own way.”
I didn’t see her again for two days.
