My wife confessed she fantasises about my best friend. We said yes. Now I get to decide how far it goes.
How it works: read, then choose what you do. Only the right choices earn the happy ending.
I’m Callum, I’m thirty-eight, and I’ve been married to Fiona for nine years. She’s thirty-six, a primary school deputy head with a sensible bob and a filthy laugh, and three weeks ago, in bed, after a bottle of wine, she told me her biggest fantasy.
“Ross,” she said into the pillow. “I think about Ross.”
Ross is my best friend. Thirty-seven, divorced two years, rugby shoulders, terrible at texting back. He’s been round for dinner every other Sunday since university.
I should have been angry. Instead I lay there in the dark with the hardest erection of my adult life, and she felt it against her hip and went very quiet.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Cal.”
We talked for three weeks. Every night. What she wanted, what I wanted, what scared us. The rules: nothing happens unless all three of us want it. Either of us can stop it at any second. And it’s my call how far it goes.
Then I asked Ross. Over a pint. He went red to the ears, choked on his lager, and said, “Are you serious?” about nine times before he said yes.
So here we are. Saturday night. Ross on our sofa with a glass of wine he hasn’t touched. Fiona coming down the stairs in a black wrap dress I’ve never seen before, bare legs, hair loose.
She stopped at the bottom and looked at me. Not at him. At me.
“Well?” she said softly. “Are you staying?”
→ I sit down in the armchair and tell her I’m staying to watch