Fucking A Gen Z Baddie (1)
Fucking A Gen Z Baddie
~ Linda ~
I just found out my husband is fucking a Gen Z baddie and I don’t know what to do about it.
I’m in bed beside him, scrolling through his phone with tears running down my face. He sleeps like nothing in the world is wrong while my whole body shakes with the betrayal pressed against my palm.
“Your wife could never.” “Can’t stop thinking about your dick in my hole.” “When will she be gone?”
One dirty message after another, her tongue-out selfies and videos glowing back at me. He didn’t even bother to hide it.
God, I want to wake him up. Shove the phone in his face and ask why he needs anyone else when he has me. But the tears pouring down my cheeks taste of something hotter than grief and I know doing all that won't solve anything.
My nails dig into the phone until my palms sting, the screen slippery with sweat as I keep scrolling.
Her moan fills the tiny video, making my stomach flip… my breath hitches and my thighs press together before I can stop them. What the hell is happening to me? I should be sick, but instead I’m getting turned on?
Disgust and arousal wrestle inside me, and the worst part is I don’t know which one I want to win.
I tuck his phone under my pillow and pretend to sleep but a thought sharper than my pain keeps hammering at me. What’s so good about her? What does she have that I don’t?
That question won’t let go.
It reminds me of when I was twenty and dating a boy who chain-smoked no matter how I begged him to stop. He said it calmed him, that I wouldn’t understand. And it made me want to know what was so special about that stuff that made him choose it over me.
One night I stole one of his weed, lit it and dragged smoke into my lungs until I coughed my throat raw.
I didn’t enjoy it but I understood. It wasn’t just the smoke… it was the high, the calm that followed, the way the craving pulled him back again and again.
And now here I am, lying beside my cheating husband, thinking the same thing. He fucks her. Why? What’s her high?
The only answer that makes sense is to find out for myself.
The thought is insane. My stomach twists with disgust but there’s heat under it too. If she’s the reason my husband doesn’t touch me the way he used to, then I’ll find her. I’ll taste her. I’ll know exactly what’s so irresistible.
I slide out of bed, my legs trembling. My reflection in the dresser mirror is ruined—red eyes, wet cheeks. I almost laugh at the sight.
What kind of wife thinks like this? What kind of woman decides the best revenge isn’t to confront her husband, but to fuck his mistress?
Me.
If he thinks he can cheat on me, I can also do the same… and with the same person he cheated on me with.
I unlock his phone again, this time digging for her socials. It’s too easy—her Instagram linked in her bio, her OnlyFans tagged in her captions. My throat tightens as I scroll her page. She’s young, bold, and dripping in confidence.
Skirts cropped so short you can see the lace of her thong. Captions like: your man was here last night; ask him if I moaned louder than you do, and a selfie stamped ‘stop watching, start choking me.’
Fire emojis everywhere. Men begging to fuck. Women calling her queen. And there, buried in the worship, my husband, double-tapping like a fool.
I shut the app and open his WhatsApp again. The chat with her is right there, taunting me. I type before I can stop myself. ‘Let’s meet.’
My finger hovers over send, heart racing, but I hit send in a panic then delete the message. I tuck the phone under my pillow and wait. When the next reply comes I’ll be the one answering.
Minutes drag like hours. I sit in the dark, trembling and listening to my husband breathe. Then the phone buzzes.
Her reply: Last night wasn’t enough? Thought you’d be limping. Want me to ride you raw at Red Lantern again? Or should I pick the next spot your wife can smell me on you?
I stare at the reply, eyes wide. I have to think fast.
My husband turns in his sleep and I face the phone screen down on the bed, pretending to be asleep.
When he stills I return to the phone. The Red Lantern. I know that hotel. I also know my husband doesn’t wake up early which makes it easier to pick a different hotel like that one and pretend to be him.
I text back: I was thinking Velvet & Ash, dear. 8am tomorrow. Don’t call or text me before then, I don’t want my wife swooping around.
Her reply knocks the breath out of me as hot tears starts streaming down my face.
‘Since when has your wife been a problem?’
So this is what my husband has reduced me to?
The urge to smash the phone against the wall is heavier now but Instead, I breathe, nails carving half moons into my palm. I have to see this through.
My thumbs hover over the keys, shaking.
Finally I type: You know she’s not, honey. She’s just snooping more lately… you know how wives get when they’re not being fucked.
Her reply is only a laughing emoji. I delete our chat and drop the phone back on the bed stand.
Sleep doesn’t come. Anger twists in my chest, but deep down, heat starts to rise. It’s shameful, wet, and impossible to ignore. My thighs press together under the sheets and I hate myself for the pulse I feel there, for the way my body reacts when I picture her lip gloss shining around a moan sent to my husband.
I shouldn’t want this. But I do… I mean, this ‘married’ woman hasn’t had sex in months.
When morning finally cracks through the curtains, I feel empty. The clock showing 6:03 a.m. He’s still dead asleep beside me and I watch him for a moment, my chest burning with everything I can’t scream into his face.
I slide from the bed as quietly as I can. I shower in a rush, scrubbing hard like I can wash away the tears and the filth of his lies. Then I dress up quickly.
My fingers close around the phone and I tuck it into my bag like stolen treasure. The only way this plan will work is if I take it with me.
In the mirror, my eyes are swollen from crying, but under the mess something harder stares back. Determination.
I slip on my shoes, easing the door open without a sound. The hallway is cool against my skin, my heartbeat calm now. By the time he wakes, I’ll already be gone.
\~~~
The hotel lobby smells of coffee and chlorine, too bright for what I’m about to do. My heels click loudly on the floor like everyone can hear my guilt. The receptionist doesn’t even blink when I check in under my husband’s name, just slides the key card across the counter.. but my hand shakes as I take it like it weighs a hundred pounds.
The elevator ride feels endless and with every lurch upward my pulse climbs higher, harder, until it’s hammering in my throat. By the time I reach my floor I’m sure the entire hotel can hear my heart beating.
I pace the room in silence. My hands shake as I text her from his phone: Room 306. Door’s open.
Five minutes later, the handle clicks. I press flat against the wall behind the door, holding my breath.
She steps in, and for a moment she’s exactly like her pictures—lashes like wings, lips glossy, short flared skirt, crop top cutting just above her waist. She smiles like she’s been here a hundred times, like she already owns the place.
I push the door shut behind her and flick the lock. The sound makes her spin. For a second, shock flashes across her face. Then she smiles slowly.
My gaze catches the Adam’s apple on her throat. The faint stubble under her make up. Shoulders broader than I imagined. My stomach knots.
She’s not just some Gen Z baddie. She’s a cross-dresser. Feminine, yes, but not a woman.
Not what I expected… not at all.