Vista Pines
By uppishcarrot.
The complex had been built in the eighties, when developers still believed one spot per unit was generous. Now, with every couple owning two cars and half the tenants running side-hustle delivery gigs, the lot was a nightly war zone. Alex usually circled for twenty minutes, cursing under his breath, before wedging his Civic into whatever half-space was left. Emily never complained; she just took the subway to her design job downtown and let him deal with it.
They had been married six years. The first three had been good–sex twice a week, vacations in Airbnbs, the usual. Then life settled in: longer hours, shorter tempers, separate sides of the bed. They still held hands at dinner parties, still said “love you” at night, but the bedroom had gone quiet. Emily never brought it up, and Alex was too afraid of the answer to ask.
Then Derek moved into 4B.
Derek was six-four, broad-shouldered, and drove a black pickup truck the size of a small yacht. He wore sunglasses indoors and spoke as if every sentence were a gift he was reluctantly bestowing on the listener. The first time Alex met him was in the mailroom. Derek was leaning against the lockers, scrolling through his phone.
“You’re the guy in 3C?” Derek asked without looking up.
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Your wife’s hot.”
He said it flat, like he was commenting on the weather. Alex felt his face burn, mumbled something, and fled with the grocery ads.
Emily laughed when he told her that night. “He’s just confident,” she said, pouring wine. “You should try it sometime.”
Two weeks later, Derek knocked on their door holding a bottle of tequila and a grin that suggested he already knew he’d be invited in. Emily let him in before Alex could invent an excuse. They drank on the balcony. Derek talked about his job in private equity, the places he’d traveled, the women who “couldn’t keep up.” Emily’s laugh got louder with every shot. Alex nursed one beer and felt the room tilt in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
Derek left at two in the morning. Emily kissed Alex on the cheek in the hallway, whispered “thank you for being cool,” and went to bed. Alex lay awake, listening to the quiet, wondering why the words’ thank you’ felt worse than any insult.
The second time Derek came over, it was a Thursday. It was raining. Derek arrived in a soaked dress shirt that clung to every line of his chest and shoulders. He shook his hair like a dog in the doorway.
“Jesus, the parking here is criminal,” he said. “I’m double-parked behind you…. Blue Civic, right?”
Emily laughed, touched his arm. “Poor baby.”
Alex stood there holding the door open, rain dripping off Derek’s jacket onto their welcome mat.
Emily glanced at her husband, something playful and sharp in her eyes. “Sweetie, why don’t you go park Derek’s car for him? That way, he doesn’t have to go back out in this.”
It was phrased as a question, but it wasn’t one.
Alex opened his mouth. Closed it. Derek was already fishing the key from his pocket, dangling it like bait.
“You mind, bro?” Derek asked, not waiting for an answer.
The keys landed in Alex’s palm with a soft, humiliating clink.
He parked the pickup truck three blocks away, between a dumpster and a hydrant, windshield wipers still going because he forgot to turn them off. When he walked back, soaked to the bone, the apartment door was locked. He stood in the hallway for forty-three minutes, listening to muffled laughter, then music, then nothing he wanted to name. At one point, the walls vibrated faintly with a rhythm that wasn’t the bassline.
When the door finally opened, Emily was in her robe, hair tousled, cheeks flushed. Derek followed a minute later, shirt untucked, looking like a man who’d just won something important.
“Thanks, man,” Derek said, taking the keys Alex had been clutching the whole time. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Emily kissed Derek goodnight at the door, a real kiss, slow and unembarrassed. Then she turned to Alex, touched his wet cheek.
“You’re soaked. Take a hot shower. I’ll wait up.”
She didn’t wait up.
After that, it became the arrangement.
Every Tuesday and Friday, Derek texted Emily. Every Tuesday and Friday, Alex waited by the building entrance at 8:07 p.m. sharp, because that’s when Derek liked to arrive. He took pride in his punctuality. Alex would step out into whatever weather, take the keys with a quiet “I’ve got it,” and Derek would clap him on the shoulder, sometimes a little too hard, and head upstairs.
Emily always left the door on the latch for Derek. By the time Alex returned from parking, usually ten to thirty minutes later, depending on how vicious the hunt was that night, the deadbolt would be thrown. He learned to bring a book, or just stand there under the flickering hallway light, listening to the soft sounds that leaked through the walls: Emily’s laugh, lower than he ever heard it with him; the creak of their bedframe; once, unmistakably, her voice saying Derek’s name in a way she had never said Alex’s.
Sometimes they finished quickly, and Emily let him in with an apologetic smile and a cup of tea. More often, they didn’t. On those nights, Alex sat on the hallway carpet until the door opened and Derek strolled out, hair perfect again, smelling like sex and Emily’s expensive perfume.
“Appreciate you, bro,” Derek always said.
Emily started kissing Derek goodbye in the hallway now, pressed against the wall, one leg hooked around his. Alex waited at the elevator, holding Derek’s keys until they were done.
He never saw them together in the bedroom. He never needed to. The evidence was everywhere: the extra wine glasses in the sink, the faint musk in the cushions, the way Emily hummed in the shower the next morning, skin glowing, while Alex made coffee neither of them drank.
One Friday in early spring, Alex parked the pickup truck in a miraculously close spot, right in front of the building. He jogged back, grinning, proud for once, keys swinging. He reached for the door, expecting it open.
Locked.
He waited an hour and twelve minutes that night. When Derek finally emerged, he looked almost concerned.
“Rough out there tonight, huh?” he said, taking the keys. “Thanks for taking one for the team.”
Emily appeared behind him in one of Derek’s T-shirts, hair wild, lips swollen. She smiled at Alex like he was a sweet, slightly slow child.
“You’re the best husband,” she said softly, and closed the door.
Alex stood in the hallway a long time after they left for Derek’s place this time; he’d heard them decide. Eventually, he let himself in with his key. The apartment was dark except for the city glow through the windows. The bed was wrecked. One of Derek’s socks lay on the floor like a surrender flag.
He picked it up, folded it carefully, and put it on the kitchen counter where Derek would see it next time.
Then he went to sleep on the couch, because the sheets smelled like someone else’s victory.
And somewhere in the quiet, Alex realized the strangest part: every Tuesday and Friday at 8:05 p.m., he was already standing by the building entrance, waiting for the black pickup truck to pull up, keys ready in his hand.
He told himself it was for Emily.
But the truth was simpler and more humiliating than that.
He just didn’t know how to stop.
By summer, Derek wasn’t a visitor anymore. He was the weather.
He had a toothbrush in the bathroom, three drawers in the dresser, and a permanent spot on the left side of the bed–the side Alex used to sleep on. Tuesdays and Fridays had become negotiable concepts. Derek showed up when he felt like it: Sunday brunch, Wednesday nights after the gym, Thursday mornings before work because he “needed a real shower.” Emily never told him no. Alex never dared.
The parking ritual continued, but it had grown baroque. Now Alex met Derek at the curb, took the keys, and also carried whatever Derek had brought: a dry-cleaning bag, a gym duffel, the size of a body bag, and a bottle of wine that cost more than Alex’s weekly grocery budget. Derek would stride past him into the building without a word, leaving Alex to wrestle the pickup truck into whatever alley or loading zone would take it.
Inside, Alex had become the staff.
He shopped, he cooked, he cleaned. He learned Derek liked his eggs over-easy with the yolks still runny, his coffee black and scalding, his steaks rare enough to moo. Emily floated through it all in silk robes and bare feet, kissing Derek on the mouth while Alex folded laundry in the living room like a maid who’d been told to stay quiet.
He still never saw them fuck. He didn’t have to. The apartment told the story every day: the wet towels on the bathroom floor, the condom wrappers he found behind the couch cushions, the faint bite marks on Emily’s neck that her hair didn’t quite hide when she leaned over to refill Derek’s glass.
And Emily–God, Emily–had never looked happier. She glowed. She laughed at Derek’s jokes before he finished the punchline. She called Alex “sweetheart” in a voice that made the word feel like a pat on the head.
One Friday in August, Derek decided he wanted steak for dinner.
He didn’t ask. He announced it while scrolling his phone at the kitchen island, feet up on a stool Alex had just wiped down.
“Ribeye. Bone-in. Salt, pepper, butter. You know how I like it.”
Alex was already chopping vegetables for the pasta primavera Emily had requested that morning — her favorite, the one with the lemon cream sauce she used to beg him to make when they were first married.
“I’ve got the pasta going,” Alex said quietly. “Em loves this one.”
Derek looked up slowly. The apartment went still except for the low bubble of the sauce on the stove.
Emily was on the couch, legs tucked under her, watching with the small, curious smile she wore when she knew something delicious was about to happen.
Derek set his phone down.
“Come here,” he said.
Alex’s feet moved before his brain caught up. He stopped in front of Derek, close enough to smell the cologne that now lived in their bedroom.
Derek reached out–not fast, almost lazy–and cupped Alex’s balls through his jeans. Then he squeezed. Not a playful grab. A deliberate, grinding pinch that sent lightning up Alex’s spine and buckled his knees.
Alex made a choked sound, half-gasp, half-whimper.
“Don’t back-talk me,” Derek said, voice calm, almost affectionate. “Make the fucking steak.”
He held the pressure for another three seconds–just long enough for Alex’s vision to spark white at the edges–then let go.
Alex staggered back, eyes watering, face burning hotter than the stove behind him. His balls throbbed like they’d been kicked. He couldn’t look at Emily. He didn’t need to. He could feel her watching.
“Yes, sir,” he whispered. The words came out on their own.
Derek smiled, already turning back to his phone. “Good boy.”
Alex went to the fridge on legs that didn’t feel like his. He pulled out the ribeye Derek had bought the day before–the one Alex had assumed was for a special occasion that would never include him. He fired up the cast-iron pan, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped the meat.
Behind him, Emily padded over in her bare feet. She came up behind Alex, slipped her arms around his waist, and pressed a soft kiss between his shoulder blades.
“You’re doing great,” she murmured against his shirt. “I’m proud of you.”
Then she reached around him, turned off the pasta burner, and let the sauce cool into a ruined skin.
Derek ate his steak medium-rare, moaning theatrically with every bite. Emily fed him forkfuls from her own plate, giggling when the juices ran down his chin. Alex stood at the counter and ate cold pasta straight from the pot, fork scraping metal, tasting nothing.
Later, when Derek carried Emily to the bedroom–her legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth on his neck–Alex cleared the table, scrubbed the cast-iron, and folded Derek’s jeans where he’d left them on the living room floor.
When the headboard started its familiar rhythm against the wall, Alex sat on the couch the way he always did now–hands in his lap, eyes on the dark TV screen, counting the beats.
He didn’t cry anymore.
He was too busy listening for the next order.
Winter came, and the apartment shrank around Alex until it felt like a cage built from his own ribs.
He woke up every morning to the sound of Derek fucking Emily in the shower–water running, her moans echoing off the tile, Derek’s low growl telling her exactly what a good girl she was. Alex lay on the couch (he hadn’t slept in the bed in months), counting the thuds against the wall and pretending he was still asleep when they emerged, pink and laughing, towels barely knotted.
He made them breakfast. Always. Derek liked his eggs basted now, not over-easy. Alex learned the difference the hard way–one morning the yolk broke and Derek looked at him like he’d pissed on the floor. Emily just giggled and said, “It’s fine, baby, Alex will make you new ones.” And Alex did. Shirtless, because Derek had started commenting that aprons looked “gay” on him.
It was a Tuesday in October. Derek was away on business for a deal. Emily was curled on the couch in one of Derek’s T-shirts, legs bare, wineglass dangling. Alex sat beside her, heart hammering like it wanted out of his chest. He put a hand on her thigh. She didn’t move it away.
“Em,” he said, voice cracking. “It’s been a really long time. Can we…?”
She looked at him for a long moment, something almost tender in her eyes. Then she set the glass down and kissed him–soft, slow, the way she used to. She tasted like merlot and Derek’s cologne. His body responded at first, a weak twitch of hope. She led him to the bedroom, pushed him gently onto the bed, and climbed on top.
But the second she touched him, he felt it–the cold wave of panic, the memory of every time he’d stood outside the locked door, the sound of Derek’s name in her mouth. His cock shriveled like it had been dipped in ice water.
Emily tried. God, she tried. She stroked him, kissed, whispered things she hadn’t said to him in years. Nothing. He lay there burning with shame while she pretended not to notice, then finally sighed and rolled off.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she said, patting his chest like he was a dog that had failed a trick. “It happens.”
When Derek came home a few nights later, of course, she told him. She told him in great detail how Alex had failed to function as a man properly. Alex was in his own world, sweeping in the living room, when he heard the roar of laughter coming from the kitchen.
Then Derek’s voice, loud enough to make sure Alex heard every word: “He couldn’t even get it up? Holy fuck, Em, that’s pathetic. Your little boy still can’t find his dick?”
Emily giggled. “He tried so hard. It was actually kind of cute.”
“Cute,” Derek repeated, savoring it. “Jesus Christ. Tell him real men don’t need a pep talk to fuck their own wife.”
The teasing never stopped after that. Derek made it an art form.
“Need me to draw you a diagram, buddy?” he’d ask when Alex passed him the remote.
“Better stick to cooking, little guy. Leave the heavy lifting to me.”
He’d grab his own crotch casually while looking right at Alex. “This is what a working cock looks like. Take notes.”
Emily never told him to stop. She just watched, lips curved in that secret smile, sometimes resting her hand on Derek’s thigh while he eviscerated what was left of Alex’s manhood.
Eventually, money got tight. Derek liked expensive takeout, good whiskey, the kind of dates that cost more than Alex’s weekly salary. So Alex signed up for Uber Eats. Nights and weekends, biking through the city with insulated bags, delivering pad thai and poke bowls to strangers while his wife got railed three blocks away.
He told himself it was temporary.
Then came the night that broke something inside him that would never grow back.
The app pinged: Order from “Em&D.” Double cheeseburger, animal-style fries, chocolate shake—pickup at In-N-Out on La Brea.
His stomach dropped when he saw the delivery address.
Vista Pines Apartments. Unit 3C.
He almost canceled. Almost threw the phone in the gutter. But the completion rate penalty loomed, and he was already broke, so he rode.
The whole way there, he prayed it was a glitch. A different 3C. Anything.
He buzzed the intercom with shaking fingers.
“Yeah?” Derek’s voice was lazy and amused.
“Delivery.”
“Come on up.”
The door to 3C was cracked open. Alex stepped inside, bag clutched to his chest like a shield.
Derek answered shirtless, sweatpants low, hair wet from the shower. He looked Alex up and down like he’d never seen him before in his life.
“Eight bucks tip if you hustle,” he said, taking the bag.
Alex stood frozen.
Derek raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”
“You… you ordered this?”
Derek frowned theatrically.
Emily appeared behind him in Derek’s robe, cinched loose, marks on her neck still fresh. She tilted her head, puzzled.
“Thanks for the food, bro.” He started closing the door.
Alex’s voice cracked. “Derek, come on.”
Derek paused, smirked. “Take it easy, buddy.”
The door shut in his face.
He stood in the hallway–the same hallway where he’d waited with keys so many times–listening to them laugh inside.
He swallowed his pride and moved on to the next delivery.
A few hours later, he arrived back home, letting himself in only to find both Derek and Emily on the couch sharing fries, Netflix paused on some action movie.
He made the foolish decision to confront them.
“You ordered In-N-Out. You made me deliver it. You pretended not to know me.”
Emily blinked up at him, innocent. “Sweetie, we ordered from Postmates.”
Derek didn’t even look away from the TV. “Yeah, man. Think you dropped it off at the wrong unit. Happens.”
Alex stared at them. The empty In-N-Out bag on the coffee table. The grease stains on Derek’s fingers.
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Nothing came out.
He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and stood there until the ice melted.
That night, he slept on the balcony because the couch smelled like them.
Some doors, once closed, don’t open again.
He just hadn’t realized he was the one on the outside now.
December mornings in the apartment were always cold, but the shower had been Alex’s last private sanctuary. He stood under the weak stream at 6:47 a.m., eyes closed, letting the hot water beat on the back of his neck, trying not to think about the sounds he’d heard until 3 a.m.–Emily’s muffled cries, the wet slap of skin, Derek’s low, filthy praise.
Then the hot water simply vanished.
Ice water exploded over him like a slap from God. Alex screamed–a high, undignified yelp–and stumbled backward, slamming his elbow against the tile. He clawed at the knob, but the cold kept coming, merciless.
The bathroom door flew open.
Emily stood there in one of Derek’s white dress shirts, sleeves rolled up, three buttons undone, nipples visible through the fabric. She took in the scene–Alex hunched and shivering, hands cupped protectively over his groin–and her lips curved into that slow, delighted smile he had come to dread.
“Oh my God,” she said, voice bubbling with laughter. “Look at it.”
Alex’s face burned hotter than the water ever had. He was completely shriveled, his penis a tiny pink acorn hiding in wet curls. The cold had shrunk him to something almost infantile.
“It’s… it’s just the cold,” he stammered, teeth chattering.
Emily tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “It’s adorable. Like a little button mushroom.” She actually pulled out her phone and snapped a picture before he could turn away. “Derek is going to lose his mind when he sees this.”
“Please, Em–”
But she was already gone, laughing down the hallway.
Derek was at the kitchen island drinking coffee when she showed him. Alex heard the roar of laughter from the bathroom, loud enough to rattle the mirror. He stayed under the frigid spray another thirty seconds, punishing himself, before shutting it off and wrapping a towel around his waist like a child.
When he finally emerged, Derek was waiting, phone in hand, grinning as Christmas had come early.
“Jesus Christ, dude,” he said, holding up the photo. “That’s you? I thought it was one of those hairless cats.”
Alex stared at the floor.
“I mean, I knew you were packing a cocktail Wiener, but that’s… that’s a fucking tic-tac.” Derek zoomed in theatrically. “Emily, babe, you sure this thing even qualifies as equipment?”
Emily leaned against him, still giggling. “It’s cute when it tries.”
Derek clapped Alex on the shoulder, hard enough to sting. “Don’t worry, little man. Some guys are growers. You’re apparently a never-was.”
The water heater had finally died. The building super said it would be Wednesday at the earliest. Derek stretched into days of lukewarm trickles and outright cold showers.
Tuesday night, Derek announced he could fix it. “Did a stint in construction back in college. Easy job.”
Alex opened his mouth to say they should just wait for the professional, but Emily was already beaming at Derek like he’d offered to buy her diamonds.
So Wednesday morning found Alex on his knees in the cramped utility closet, naked from the waist up because Derek said, “You’ll get sweaty,” handing tools to the man who had been fucking his wife for eight months.
Derek lay on his back under the tank, shirt off, muscles flexing every time he reached for a wrench. Alex knelt beside him, passing pliers, Teflon tape, a flashlight–whatever was barked at him.
“Pipe cutter.”
Alex handed it over.
“Hold this fitting–yeah, right there. Don’t let it move, got it?”
Alex braced the copper pipe with both hands while Derek worked. Sweat dripped off Derek’s chest onto Alex’s forearms. The position forced Alex’s face inches from Derek’s crotch, the outline of his heavy cock visible through gray sweatpants, thick, even soft.
Emily appeared in the doorway wearing only Derek’s T-shirt again, the hem barely covering her ass. She watched for a minute, biting her lip.
“You two look good down there,” she said, voice husky.
Derek grinned up at her, not missing a beat with the wrench. “Like the view, babe?”
“Mm-hmm.” She shifted, thighs rubbing together. “Derek… can you come look at something in the bedroom real quick? I think the… headboard is loose again.”
Derek didn’t even glance at Alex. “Yeah. Be right there.”
He slid out from under the tank, wiped his hands on Alex’s discarded T-shirt, and followed Emily down the hall.
“Keep that tape exactly where it is,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t fuck it up.”
The bedroom door didn’t even close all the way.
Ten seconds later, Alex heard the unmistakable rustle of fabric hitting the floor, Emily’s sharp inhale, then the low groan Derek made whenever he pushed inside her.
He stayed kneeling in the closet, arms trembling from holding the pipe steady, listening to his wife get fucked twenty feet away.
They weren’t subtle.
The headboard slammed against the wall in a steady, brutal rhythm. Emily’s voice climbed higher and higher–words Alex hadn’t heard her use with him in years.
“Yes–God–harder–Derek–please–”
Derek’s grunts, the wet sounds, the creak of springs. Once, Emily cried out so loudly that Alex flinched, the pipe slipping a fraction before he caught it again.
It went on for twenty-three minutes. Alex counted everyone.
When Derek finally strolled back in, he was shirtless, sweat-slicked, cock still half-hard and swinging heavily against his thigh. He didn’t bother putting it away.
“Good job holding that steady, bro,” he said, sliding back under the tank as he’d just gone to take a piss. “Almost done.”
Emily’s voice floated down the hallway, lazy and satisfied: “Take your time, babe. I’m just going to lie here for a bit.”
Derek chuckled, reached up, and ruffled Alex’s hair like he was a dog.
“You’re a good little helper, you know that?”
Alex stayed on his knees until the job was finished, arms numb, face burning, the ghost of their sex still echoing in his ears.
The hot water worked perfectly that night.
Alex didn’t use it.
He showered cold.
It felt honest.
Somehow, Derek had become a permanent fixture in their lives. Alex hadn’t been replaced. But this new dynamic left him feeling emasculated and powerless. He sighed sharply as he turned off the water. He was going to take a few moments, then he’d start making dinner: steak and mashed potatoes.
The End.
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