Her Hears Her Cum

The hum of the washing machine vibrated through the floorboards, a steady rhythm against the frantic beat of Michael’s heart. Sunlight, thin and pale, slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He scrubbed at a stubborn grease stain on the countertop, the rough sponge rasping against the laminate. A faint, muffled moan drifted down from upstairs, followed by a deeper, guttural sound. Michael’s hand paused, the sponge still. He knew that sound. He’d heard it enough times in his own bed, in the quiet darkness, with Sarah wrapped around him. But this wasn’t his bed, not really. This was their bed, and the sounds were for someone else.

His son, Leo, a whirlwind of sticky fingers and boundless energy, clattered into the kitchen, a brightly colored plastic truck gripped in his fist. “Dad, I’m hungry!”
Michael forced a smile, turning from the counter. “Hey there, slugger. What do you fancy?” His voice was a little too bright, a little too even. He knelt, ruffling Leo’s messy blonde hair. The boy smelled of sunshine and faint traces of peanut butter.
“Pancakes!” Leo’s eyes, wide and blue like Sarah’s, sparkled with anticipation.
“Pancakes it is,” Michael said, standing. He pulled a box of pancake mix from the pantry, his movements deliberate, almost robotic. Each step, each action, a shield against the rising tide of emotions churning within him. He mixed the batter, the whisk clinking against the bowl, a counterpoint to the sounds from above.
A louder groan, a sharp intake of breath, then the rhythmic creak of bedsprings. It wasn’t a gentle creak, not like when he and Sarah made love. This was a deeper, more insistent protest from the old frame, as if the bed itself was struggling under the weight of their passion. Michael swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He poured the batter onto the hot griddle, watching the bubbles form on the surface, a miniature universe of his own making.
“Dad, can I help?” Leo tugged at his pant leg.
“Sure, buddy. You can stir the syrup,” Michael replied, handing him a small pitcher. He watched Leo, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stirred, a tiny chef in the making. Michael felt a pang, a complex mix of tenderness and resentment. This was his life now. This was his role.
Upstairs, the tempo quickened. A woman’s breathless gasp, then a man’s low growl, like a predator cornering its prey. Michael closed his eyes for a brief second, picturing it. He knew Sarah’s body intimately, every curve, every dip, every secret place. He knew how her skin flushed, how her breath hitched, how her fingers tangled in his hair. Now, another man was discovering those secrets, eliciting those sounds.
“Dad, the pancakes are burning!” Leo’s voice, sharp with alarm, pulled him back.
Michael snatched the spatula, flipping the pancakes just in time. The edges were a little crisp, but salvageable. “Oops, good catch, champ.” He set a stack of golden-brown pancakes on a plate for Leo, drizzling syrup over them.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, slow and heavy, then a door creaked open. Michael stiffened, his back to the hallway. He didn’t need to see them, not yet. He could feel their presence, a palpable heat radiating from them.
“Morning, boys,” Sarah’s voice, husky and a little strained, drifted into the kitchen. Michael didn’t turn. He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of bare feet on the wooden floor.
“Mommy!” Leo shrieked, his mouth full of pancake.
Michael heard Sarah chuckle, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine. “Someone’s enjoying their breakfast.”
“Pancakes!” Leo declared, holding up a syrup-covered hand.
“They look delicious,” Sarah said, her voice closer now. Michael felt her presence behind him, a warmth at his back. He knew she was looking at him, a silent question in her eyes. He didn’t meet her gaze. He just kept making pancakes, flipping them with practiced ease.
“Morning, Michael,” a deeper voice rumbled from the doorway. Mark. Michael finally turned, his face a mask of polite neutrality. Mark leaned against the doorframe, a towel slung low around his waist, water droplets clinging to the dark hair on his chest. His eyes, dark and intense, met Michael’s. A faint, knowing smirk played on his lips. Michael hated that smirk.
“Mark,” Michael acknowledged, his voice flat. He turned back to the griddle, flipping another pancake.
Sarah walked past him, her hand brushing his arm, a fleeting touch that felt like an apology and a challenge all at once. She moved to the coffee maker, her back to him. Her hair, usually neat, was a wild tangle around her shoulders, and her silk robe, usually tied tight, hung open just enough to reveal the curve of her hip, a glimpse of the pale skin of her inner thigh. Michael knew what he’d find if he looked closer, the faint marks, the flush of her skin. He didn’t look.
“Coffee ready?” Mark asked, his voice a low purr. He moved to stand behind Sarah, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. Michael watched them in his peripheral vision, the way Mark’s fingers kneaded the tense muscles in her neck.
“Almost,” Sarah murmured, leaning into his touch.
“I can make you some, Mark,” Michael offered, his voice strained. He didn’t want to watch this. He wanted to scream, to smash something, to drag Mark out of his house by his goddamn hair. But he didn’t. He just kept making pancakes.
“No, no, I’m good,” Mark said, his eyes still on Michael, that infuriating smirk widening. “Sarah knows just how I like it.”
Michael gripped the spatula tighter. He felt the heat of the griddle against his skin, the acrid smell of burnt butter now mingling with the sweet scent of syrup and the faint, musky odor of sex that clung to Mark and Sarah.
“Dad, can I have more syrup?” Leo asked, oblivious to the charged atmosphere.
“Of course, buddy,” Michael said, his voice softening as he turned to his son. He poured more syrup, watching the thick amber liquid snake across the pancakes. He focused on Leo, on the simple joy of fatherhood, a small anchor in the storm of his emotions.
Sarah turned from the coffee maker, two steaming mugs in her hands. She handed one to Mark, their fingers brushing, a silent language passing between them. Mark took a long sip, his eyes never leaving Michael.
“These pancakes smell incredible, Michael,” Sarah said, her voice a little too bright. “You’re such a good cook.”
Michael grunted, a noncommittal sound. He set another plate of pancakes down, this one for Sarah. He didn’t make one for Mark.
Mark noticed. His smirk didn’t falter. “Looks like I’ll have to settle for coffee.”
“There’s plenty of mix,” Michael said, his voice flat. “You can make your own.”
Sarah shot him a look, a flicker of irritation in her eyes. “Michael.”
“What?” Michael challenged, his eyes meeting hers for the first time that morning. Her pupils were dilated, her lips swollen, a faint flush still on her cheeks. He saw the remnants of passion on her face, and a fresh wave of something cold and sharp washed over him.
“Nothing,” Sarah said, turning away, her gaze dropping to her plate.
“Mommy, can we go to the park today?” Leo asked, finishing his last bite of pancake.
“Maybe later, sweetie,” Sarah replied, her voice softer now, directed at her son. “Mommy’s a little tired.”
“I can take him,” Michael offered, his voice devoid of emotion. “We can go to the park, then the library.”
“That sounds lovely, Michael,” Sarah said, without looking at him. Mark’s hand, still on her shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze.
Michael looked at Mark, at the smug satisfaction in his eyes, at the way his fingers lingered on Sarah’s robe. He felt a visceral urge to lash out, to break something, to shatter this carefully constructed facade of domesticity. But he didn’t. He just kept serving pancakes, his movements precise, his face a neutral mask. He was the cuckold, the provider, the silent observer. And in this moment, he hated himself for it.
The washing machine still hummed, a constant drone. The sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor. Michael finished the last pancake, placing it on a clean plate. He looked at the three of them—his son, innocent and joyful; his wife, flushed and sated; and the man who had just shared her bed, triumphant and unapologetic. He picked up his own plate, empty and cold. He walked out of the kitchen, leaving them to their breakfast, to their stolen intimacy, to their shared morning. He needed to fold laundry. He had a house to run.