Yes

The doorbell goes at eight exactly.

Remy is in a tight top and jeans that look chosen, not accidental. She comes in talking.

“So this is the apartment where your wife gets medically altered,” she says to Adam, before she has even taken off her shoes. “Cute. I expected more candles. Or a wheelchair ramp.”

Adam shuts the door. “Hi, Remy.”

“Hi.” She looks him over like she is confirming the photo. Then she looks at Mia. “She told you I was coming to fix her, right. Because left to her own devices she walks into work like you took a bat to her.”

Mia takes her coat. “She offered to teach me.”

“I offered because somebody had to.” Remy drops her bag by the couch. “I’ve been listening to this one talk around sex like it’s a weather event. You’re big. Fine. I’ve seen bigger. The problem isn’t you. It’s her. She clamps. She gets precious. She turns a fuck into a story.”

Adam sits when Mia nods at the couch. Remy sits too close to him on purpose, knee angled toward his.

Small talk, if it can be called that, is all about Mia’s alleged incompetence.

“She showed me the picture at work,” Remy says. “In the cubicle. Like a woman revealing a family secret. I told her I’d taken thicker. She gave me the technique speech. That’s always the tell. When a wife says technique, she means she doesn’t know how to keep her throat open or her hips loose.”

Mia stands in front of them and lets her finish.

“Are we doing this,” Remy asks, already bored of waiting, “or are we writing vows.”

Mia looks at her. “Teach me.”

Remy smiles that condescending smile and pats the space of carpet between Adam’s knees.

“Kneel down. If you’re going to learn how to handle your husband’s cock, you’re not going to do it from a lecture. You’re going to watch.”

Mia kneels.

Adam is already hard when Remy undoes him. She makes a small sound she tries to turn into a joke.

“Okay. That’s the photo. I’ll give you that.”

Then she takes him in her hand and her mouth like she has been waiting all day to prove a point.

“Watch my jaw,” she tells Mia, lifting off him just enough to talk, spit already shining on the shaft. “You keep it soft. You don’t chase it with your teeth. You let the head sit on your tongue first. See. Then you take the first few inches like you mean them. You don’t stab at it. You sink.”

She sinks.

Adam’s hand stays on the back of the couch, not in her hair. Mia watches from the floor. When Remy’s eyes close, Mia looks up at Adam. He looks back. The glance is small and certain.

Remy comes off him with a wet sound and keeps teaching.

“Use your hand on what you can’t fit yet. Twist. Wet it. You don’t pretend you can swallow a cock this thick on pride. That’s how wives get sore throats and sad stories. You work the shaft. You keep the head warm. You breathe through your nose when he starts taking more.”

She takes more.

Her technique is good. Clean. Practiced. She knows how to keep her teeth back. She knows how to use her tongue under the ridge. She looks expensive doing it.

It is still not Mia.

Mia can see the difference from the floor. Remy is performing a skill. She is not worshipping him. She does not know the angle he likes when he thickens. She does not stay down through the part where he wants a throat, not a demonstration. Adam’s face stays controlled. Polite heat. Not the look he gets when Mia has him.

Remy mistakes the control for praise.

She strokes him, licks the underside, takes him deep enough to make a proud little wet noise, then pulls off and looks up at him.

“You ready to cum, or does she usually need music and a plot.”

Adam’s voice is even.

“I’m nowhere close.”

The smile on Remy’s mouth slips, then comes back thinner.

“Okay. Stamina. Cute.”

Mia, still on her knees, looks at her husband.

“Do that thing you like to do to me,” she says. “The one you like.”

Remy turns her head. “What does that mean?”

Adam stands.

He steps in front of Remy on the couch, cock wet from her mouth, and takes her head in both hands.