She wanted to be taken. I wanted to watch. Then clean her up.

It started over dinner. A casual question I pretended wasn’t loaded.

“If you could sleep with anyone—no consequences, just a one-time thing—who would it be?”

She didn’t hesitate. Shemar Moore. She named someone with that smoldering, dangerous energy. The kind of man who doesn’t ask twice. The kind who takes.

And when she told me, she didn’t look away. She stared into me. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

My heart beat faster. Not from fear. Not from anger.

From something darker. Something I’d never admitted aloud.

“You think about him taking you like that?” I asked, my voice low.

She nodded slowly. “I think about being used. Like he doesn’t even care if you’re watching.”

My cock was instantly hard under the table. I didn’t say much the rest of dinner. I couldn’t. I was too busy imagining her with someone else—his hands pinning her wrists, her thighs shaking, her mouth open in desperate moans—while I sat there helpless, hard, starving for her.

⸻

When we got home, she didn’t say a word. Just walked into the bedroom, pulled out her vibrator, and slid out of her dress like it weighed her down.

She laid back, legs open, glistening already, and said, “Tell me what you’d let him do to me.”

That’s when I let it all out.

I slid in behind her, mouth near her ear, and started to paint it for her. How he’d throw her on the bed, barely speak, just take. How she’d cry out from being filled so deep her voice cracked. How he’d grip her hips and use her like she was made for it—and how I’d sit in the corner, my cock untouched, twitching, dripping, watching it all.

Her moans got louder. Her fingers moved faster.

I told her he wouldn’t pull out. He’d come inside her, hard. And then leave her messy, legs still trembling, throat raw from begging.

That’s when I got specific.

I whispered that I’d get on my knees. That I’d spread her open. That I’d taste her — not just her, but the mess he left inside her. That I’d thank her for letting me.

That did it. She came hard, back arched, mouth open in a scream. But I didn’t stop.

I kept going. Told her I’d clean her up so well she’d barely remember his name. That I needed to do it. That it was the only way I’d be allowed near her again.

She came again—legs shaking uncontrollably.

By the third time, she was soaked. Drenched. Her vibrator barely needed to be on. She was gone, floating somewhere between her orgasm and the weight of my voice in her ear, filthy and devoted.

⸻

In the shower after, we were quiet for a while. Just the sound of water running over skin. My hands were gentle, but my mind was racing with everything we’d just opened up.

Then she turned to me. Pressed her back into my chest. Tilted her head up with a smirk.

“So… you really want to be the one who just watches? Who waits their turn? Who cleans up when he’s done?”

My chest tightened. Not with fear. With need.

“Yes,” I said, without hesitation. My voice cracked slightly. “I want all of it.”

She turned, water trickling between her breasts, and kissed me—slow, deep. Like she already knew.

Then she whispered against my lips:

“Good. Because next time, I might not just let you imagine it.”