My Steamy Story: Need a story about a middle age wife (mi...

My Story Time:

Okay, so, spill the tea, bestie, because my life has become a literal reality TV show, and I’m the pathetic background character. I’m 32, which apparently makes me ancient, because my husband, Mark, brought home his new girlfriend, Chloe, who’s 19. And get this—we all live together. Me, Mark, our two kids (who are, like, 16 and 14, so basically Chloe’s peers), and my replacement. My new title in this boujee hellscape? The Hag. Period. Everyone uses it. “Hag, make dinner.” “Hag, your laundry’s done.” It’s my name now.

The romantic stuff, the spicy stuff, that’s all for them. Last night was iconic for them, I guess. I was folding towels in the laundry room—Hag work—and I could hear everything from the living room. The low, possessive way Mark talks to her. “Come here, babygirl.” The little giggles she does. I peeked, because I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.

He had her on the couch, his hand already up her shirt. She was moaning into his mouth, this tiny, breathy sound. “Mark, please…” He shushed her, pulling her shorts down, and I just stood there, frozen. He didn’t even bother taking his pants all the way off, just unzipped and pushed his dick into her, right there. She gasped, arching her back, and wrapped her legs around him. “Fuck, you’re so tight for me,” he growled, and the sound of his hips slapping against her skin was so loud. She was crying out, “Yes, yes, daddy!” and all I could do was watch, my own pussy aching, a useless Hag clutching a stack of towels, knowing that happy ending would never, ever be for me.