Chapter 8: The Kiss That Tastes Like Cum
The veranda wood was cold beneath Gwen's thighs, but she barely noticed. Her whole body was a furnace. Her fingers were still slick from watching Hinata get destroyed, and the ache between her legs had graduated from want to need.
Miles stood at the edge of the shadows, watching her.
"You're dripping," he said.
She didn't deny it. Couldn't. The evidence was right there, glistening on her fingers, smeared across her inner thighs. She'd soaked through her jeans an hour ago and had kicked them off somewhere in the dark.
"I want to try something," Miles said.
He walked past her, toward the railing that overlooked the training yard. Below them, Devon was still going through his forms. Punch, pivot, block. Punch, pivot, block. The man had the rhythm of a metronome and the awareness of a brick.
Miles leaned over the railing and looked down. Then he looked back at Gwen.
"You still have your webshooters?"
Gwen's stomach flipped. "Why?"
"Because I want you to hang."
---
She didn't ask for clarification. She didn't need to.
Three minutes later, she was suspended from the veranda's overhang, her webshooters anchored to the roof beam, her body dangling like a spider on a thread. She wore nothing but her bra and panties—black, practical, not that it mattered. The night air raised goosebumps on her skin. Her hair hung loose, swaying with every slight movement.
Miles positioned himself behind her.
Helen had emerged from the house, naked and silent, settling onto a cushion to watch. Her eyes were glassy, her lips parted. She'd been fingering herself for the last hour and showed no signs of stopping.
"Legs apart," Miles said.
Gwen spread her thighs. The webs creaked. Her body swayed.
Below them—directly below—Devon punched the air with a grunt of effort. He had no idea. No fucking clue that his wife was hanging ten feet above his head, legs spread, waiting to be fucked by another man.
Miles stepped between her dangling legs. His hands found her hips, steadying her. The suspension made her helpless—she couldn't push back, couldn't control the pace. All she could do was hang there and take whatever he gave her.
"You like this," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Say why."
"Because he's right there." Her voice shook. "Because he could look up and see me. Because I'm hanging over his head like a piece of meat and he's too stupid to notice."
"What else?"
"Because I can't stop you. Because I'm helpless. Because you can do anything you want to me and I can't do a fucking thing about it."
Miles pulled her panties to the side.
Then he was inside her.
Gwen gasped. The stretch was sudden, brutal—he hadn't bothered to warm her up, just shoved himself in to the hilt and held there, letting her feel every inch. The webs swayed. Her body rocked. Below, Devon pivoted and struck, pivoted and struck.
"You're so fucking wet," Miles said. "You've been watching Hinata get her ass destroyed and you've been dripping the whole time. You're worse than she is."
"I know."
"You're a filthy fucking voyeur."
"I know."
"You'd let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn't you? You'd let me bend you over right there in the yard and fuck you while he watches."
Gwen's cunt clenched around him. "Yes."
"You want him to see."
"Yes."
"You want him to know what a slut his wife is."
"Yes. God, yes."
Miles started moving.
Slow at first—long, deep strokes that made her whole body swing. The webs creaked with every thrust. Gwen's arms strained above her head, her shoulders burning, but the pain only made the pleasure sharper. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper.
Below, Devon stopped punching.
Gwen's heart nearly stopped. She froze, her breath caught in her throat, watching him over Miles's shoulder. He was standing still, head tilted, like he'd heard something. Like he was listening.
"Don't stop," Miles growled.
"He—he might—"
"Don't. Stop."
He fucked her harder. The webs groaned. Gwen bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting the moan building in her chest. Devon was right there. Thirty feet below. If he looked up, he'd see her. If he looked up, everything would fall apart.
He didn't look up.
He scratched his head, shrugged, and went back to punching.
Gwen nearly came from the relief alone.
"See?" Miles said. "He doesn't see anything. He never sees anything. You could hang here all night and he wouldn't notice."
He grabbed her ass and started fucking her in earnest—no more slow strokes, just brutal, driving thrusts that made her tits bounce and her vision blur. The webs screamed. Her body swung like a pendulum. Every thrust pushed a moan out of her throat that she couldn't quite swallow.
"Touch yourself," Miles said.
She let go of the web with one hand—the other still anchored, still holding her weight—and reached between her legs. Her fingers found her clit, slick and swollen, and she rubbed herself in desperate circles while Miles pounded into her.
"You're going to come," he said. "And when you do, you're going to look at him. You're going to come while you're staring at your husband, and you're going to think about how much better I am than he'll ever be."
Gwen's eyes found Devon. He was doing the Gentle Fist now, his palms striking the air in precise, measured movements. He was so focused. So dedicated. So completely fucking oblivious.
She hated him for it.
She hated how easy it was to lie to him. How easy it was to disappear for hours and come back smelling like someone else. How easy it was to moan Miles's name into her pillow while Devon slept beside her, dreaming of nothing.
She hated him because he made it so easy to betray him.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, I'm gonna come—"
"So come."
The orgasm hit her like a truck.
She clamped down on Miles's cock and screamed—actually screamed, loud enough that Helen flinched on the veranda and Devon paused mid-strike. But she was already gone, lost in the waves crashing through her body. Her legs tightened around Miles. Her fingers kept working her clit. Her eyes stayed locked on Devon.
He looked up.
Just for a second—just a glance, just a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye—and Gwen's heart stopped. She saw his face. Saw the confusion. Saw him squint into the darkness above him.
Then he shook his head, laughed at himself, and went back to training.
Miles came with a grunt, pumping his load into her, and Gwen felt it—felt him twitch and pulse and fill her up. Her body sagged against the webs. Her legs slipped from his waist. She hung there, limp and shaking, come dripping down her thighs and falling in fat droplets toward the gravel below.
Toward Devon.
One landed on his shoulder.
He brushed it away without looking up.
---
Miles pulled out. He stepped back, tucking himself away, watching Gwen dangle. His expression was satisfied—almost bored. Like this was just another Tuesday.
"Cut yourself down," he said.
Gwen fired a web at the railing and pulled. The line snapped. She dropped—four feet, a quick fall, landing in a crouch on the veranda. Her legs buckled. She caught herself on her hands and knees.
Helen crawled toward her.
"That was beautiful," Helen whispered. Her hand slid up Gwen's thigh, through the mess of come and slick. "You're so beautiful when you fall apart."
Gwen didn't answer. She was still watching Devon.
He'd finished his training. He was walking toward the house, wiping sweat from his brow, his mouth curved in that easy, trusting smile she'd fallen in love with. He'd walk inside. He'd pour a glass of water. He'd kiss Hinata goodnight.
He'd never know.
---
The kitchen was quiet.
Hinata stood at the counter, a glass of water in her hand, the tap running in the sink. Her hands were steady. Her face was composed. She looked like the same woman Devon had married—the shy, sweet girl he'd fallen for, the one who blushed when he kissed her in public and whispered his name like a prayer.
She heard his footsteps behind her.
"Hey," he said. "Still up?"
"Couldn't sleep." She turned off the tap and faced him. "How was training?"
"Good. I think I'm finally getting the timing right on the rotation." He reached past her for his own glass. "You okay? You look a little flushed."
"I'm fine."
She stepped into him. Close. Closer than normal. Her hands found his chest, her body pressed against his. She tilted her face up, and Devon smiled—that same easy smile—and leaned down to kiss her.
She caught his mouth with hers.
The kiss was soft at first—familiar, comfortable. Then she deepened it. Her tongue slid past his lips, wet and warm, and she pushed.
The come was still pooled in her mouth.
She'd held it there the whole walk from the training yard. Salty, bitter, thick. Miles had come in her mouth and she hadn't swallowed—not all of it—saving the last rope across her tongue like a secret. Now she shared it.
Devon made a sound of surprise. His hands came up to her waist, steadying her, but he didn't pull away. He kissed her back, his tongue meeting hers, and she felt him taste it. Felt him register the strange flavor, the unfamiliar texture.
He pulled back.
Smacked his lips.
"New gum?" he asked.
"Yes."
"It's minty."He grinned. "I like it."
Hinata smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Kiss me again," she said.
He did.
She pushed more of the mess into his mouth—the last of it, the dregs, the salt and the bitter tang. He swallowed it without thinking. Without knowing. He swallowed another man's come and called it mint.
"Delicious," he said.
"Yes."
She kissed him one more time, soft and sweet, then stepped back.
"Come to bed," she said.
"Be right there."
She walked away. Her legs didn't shake anymore. Her heart didn't race. She climbed the stairs, slipped into their bedroom, and lay down on the futon. When Devon joined her five minutes later, she was already pretending to be asleep.
He curled up beside her. His arm draped over her waist. His breath was warm on her neck.
"Love you," he whispered.
"I love you too."
She meant it.
That was the worst part.
---
In the training yard, Gwen sat on the veranda, naked and dripping, and watched the moon.
Miles was gone. Helen was gone. She was alone with her thoughts and the come drying on her thighs and the sound of crickets singing in the dark.
Her phone buzzed.
She picked it up. A text from Devon: You coming to bed?
She stared at the screen for a long time.
Then she typed: In a bit. Just finishing up some work.
She hit send.
She set the phone down.
She leaned back on her hands and looked up at the stars, and she thought about Hinata kissing her husband with another man's come on her tongue. She thought about Devon swallowing it and calling it mint. She thought about how easy it had been—how natural—how completely fucking effortless.
She should have felt guilty.
She should have felt anything at all.
But all she felt was hungry.
The hunger didn't fade.
It sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and no amount of staring at the stars made it lighter. Gwen pushed herself to her feet. Her thighs were sticky. Her panties were still somewhere on the veranda, abandoned. She found them, pulled them on, and walked barefoot across the compound toward her room.
The house was silent.
Devon's breathing drifted from the guest room—deep and even, the sleep of a man with nothing on his conscience. Gwen stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him. His face was slack. Peaceful. He looked like a child.
She wanted to wake him up and tell him everything.
She wanted to crawl into bed beside him and pretend none of it had happened.
She did neither. She walked to her own room, closed the door, and lay down on the futon. Sleep didn't come for a long time.
---
Morning arrived grey and cold.
Gwen found Hinata in the kitchen, dressed in a simple yukata, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. She was making tea. Her hands were steady. Her face was calm. She looked like she hadn't spent the previous night getting fucked in the ass while staring at her oblivious husband.
"Good morning," Hinata said.
"Morning."
"You want tea?"
"Sure."
Hinata poured a cup and slid it across the counter. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them acknowledged it.
"Where's Devon?"Gwen asked.
"Training. He woke up at dawn." Hinata's lips curved. "He's been very dedicated lately."
"He has no idea."
"No. He doesn't."
The words hung in the air between them. Hinata took a sip of her tea. Her expression was unreadable.
"Does it bother you?" Gwen asked.
"Does what bother me?"
"Any of it. All of it. The lying. The sneaking around. The fact that your husband kissed you last night and tasted another man's come."
Hinata set her cup down. Her eyes met Gwen's—pale and steady.
"No," she said. "It doesn't bother me."
"Why not?"
"Because I stopped pretending." She turned away, busying herself with the kettle. "For years I pretended to be something I wasn't. The perfect wife. The perfect Hyūga. The perfect heir. I was so tired of it, Gwen. So tired of being quiet and obedient and ashamed of what I wanted."
She turned back. Her face was calm, but her hands were shaking.
"And then Miles came along. And he saw right through me. He saw what I was—what I really was—and he didn't flinch. He just took it. Took me. And now I don't have to pretend anymore. I can be exactly what I am."
"And what is that?"
"A whore." She said it without shame. Without hesitation. "A slut. A fucktoy.