It all happened so fast. One minute you were blissfully married and the next your wife is telling you she’s cheating on you with your mutual coworker. Actually, he fucked her moments before she walked down the aisle to you, which she casually announced to the world over ginger shots at brunch. Your friends didn’t even try to act surprised. Everybody knows he had been fucking her, but did she need to tell them all that he had cummed on her wedding dress before you had even seen it on her?

So there’s your truth, out in the open, and nobody’s even surprised. It’s like old news to them. Everybody already knows your wife is cheating on your with your coworker, and nobody, yourself included, is batting an eyelash. Her being with him has become so the norm that she doesn’t come home most days. She used to be formal about her cheating, sending nuanced texts about her having to work overtime with her team. The effort quickly waned to a point of no communication apart from the dirty laundry she’d leave behind for you to find next to her empty side of the bed. At first she didn’t care about you finding her used panties until you caught his cum coated all over one of the fleur du mal thong she used your card on the week before. She had never even worn it for you, not once, and here it was, soaked with your coworkers nut. You got some on your face, and you swear to yourself it was an accident, but you know better than that.

It’s so wrong and you’re so fucked. But your truth is that you love it. There’s something about sitting alone at home on a weekend night while your wife is out with your coworker and a bunch of his friends, just to inevitably be used for her holes for all their hedonistic pursuits (read: she’s getting triple penetrated and cummed on again). You almost look forward to the weekends just so you can ask her where she’s going, who’s she’s going to be with, what she’s decided to wear for him. She looks so good and she only cares if he thinks so.