Tell Me Everything

Angela White stayed out all night again. Her wife April knew something had happened. When Angela finally slipped through the door, high heels dangling from her fingers, morning light already pouring across the floor, she tried to be quiet. Pointless. April sat upright in bed, waiting. April asked the questions without raising her voice. Angela gave clean answers, measured and rehearsed. April listened, felt every lie land. “You don’t owe me an explanation,” she said, tired more than angry. The words made Angela’s throat tighten. Guilt surfaced fast; she started over. She described the club, the girls booking private dancers, the flash of cash. April’s lip curled. Angela kept talking. Lap dances. Thighs sliding against strangers’ skin. Then the double-headed dildo appeared, silicone glinting under colored lights. She told April she’d taken it inside herself while the dancer rode the other end, their hips meeting in quick, wet thrusts. April’s fingers were already between her own legs, circling lazily. Angela crawled closer. She filled in every stroke, the dancer’s mouth on her nipple, fingers gripping her ass, the slap of skin. April’s breathing grew heavier, thighs opening wider. By the time Angela reached the moment she came—hard, loud, back arched—April no longer cared about the lie. She reached for her wife, pulled her down, and forgave her without another word.