Unlocked

Three months of typed filth and restraint,

the slow drip of what they'd do to me…

She described his hands, how she'd watch, how my body would learn to serve

the architecture of their marriage.

The door opened. No more theory.

She greeted me first, testing,

his hand at her waist pulling me

into the furnace they'd built.

Clothes became irrelevant, then gone,

the shock of actual skin after so much

digital longing…her back soft

beneath my palms, his eyes hard

and hungry, instructing me

where to knead, where to press,

where to make her moan.

I massaged her like I was proving something.

Oil slick on her shoulders, her spine,

the curve of her ass, his hands

already rough in her hair, pulling

her mouth to his as I worked lower,

her thighs parting for my fingers,

the room loud with the wet music of her, then him inside her, finally,

the rhythm I'd only read about,

her cunt gripping him as I held her hips,

watched her face slack with it,

felt her tremble beneath my palms

while he used her the way he'd promised.

Then it’s my turn. Her mouth on me,

his hand at the back of her head

guiding her, using her to break me open,

her tongue obedient, eager,

the heat of her still dripping

as she took me deep, his eyes

locked on mine, the message clear:

“She’s ours now, and so are you.”

Finally the aftermath. The sheets wrecked.

Her thigh thrown over mine, his hand

heavy on my chest, all of us

damp and breathing hard, the raw

sweet ache where she was thorough,

the salt still on my cock, the glow

not metaphor but actual heat

radiating from skin that has been

used exactly as it wanted to be.

No more screens. Just this.

The real, filthy, perfect now

of being held in the inner sanctum,

the third made useful,

the guest who finally belongs.