“Send me a sexy pic of your knickers, baby girl.”

“What kind of pic do you want, Daddy?”

“Something tasteful, with your legs spread wide.”

“From what angle?”

“A lower POV — looking up like you’re about to sit on my face.”

“So, camera between my legs. Kneeling over it. Slutty little knickers swallowed between my lips?”

“Fuck me. Yes. You would make Daddy very happy.”

Here I am, basked in the glow of my phone. Staring at her pretty little cunt covered in white cotton and small red hearts. I want to press my face into each one, tongue the damp fabric until the hearts blur under my mouth.

I’m an American middle-aged, married dad saying knickers now because a woman a world away owns me completely. Before her I never uttered the word. Before her, I never did the Daddy/baby girl dance. And now I’m long-distance-domming under a midnight sky from the back porch. It’s summer and even the cicadas have gone quiet. Shorts at my ankles, sitting at our umbrella table, stroking my thickening cock to a cotton-covered cunt on the other side of the planet.

There are times I wonder what the fuck I’m doing.

But when my fist is wrapped tight around my shaft and her voice is in my ear, it’s all-consuming. She lives in me now. She skulks the speech patterns of my heroines. She’s the slick, pulsing vision I see when I close my eyes at night.

I retire to the back deck under the guise of smoking a pipe and finishing bottles of Pinot Noir. Of course, there are chats within the writers’ group. And there are story edits to make. Suggestions. Everything is in the margins now. It’s all peripheral. It’s all upside down.

As I look at the vastness above me, the stars I stroke under are not the same stars she sees. It’s her early morning when it’s my midnight. Her dawn a different color. Our only constants are the constellations of freckles across her pale breasts, those soft crescents glowing from my screen in lace apertures that shadow every filthy craving I have.

She’s a mere eight years older than my oldest. She belongs in his orbit, not mine. We both know it like an inside joke scattered across 14 hours of time zones.

I do the math sometimes. Then I stop doing the math.

She’s antipodal. She’s always in my tomorrow while I chase her yesterday.

The voice notes and pics carry us through.

It’s her voice that has me undone. A sultry rasp that travels continents to reach me. I melt every single time.

She’s on repeat.

She wants a pic of my cock in return. The moonlight is bright enough. The shadow of my rigidity stretches across the deck wood like a perverse moondial. There’s light and commotion from the house — kids home from college, the hum of bass woofers.

The risks I take at this hour.

Our banter turns feral. I slide inside, lock myself in the downstairs half-bath. We’re past polite now. We boss each other raw. Switchy Daddy against an undeniable brat. Tit for tat.

“Ruin your knickers for me. Send me a pic of the evidence. I want to see exactly how soaked that greedy little cunt is.”

“Show me your cock, Daddy. Stroke it for me.”

I’m pulling hard, veins standing out, head flushed dark and leaking. She sends me her ass in a thong, cheeks spread, the thin strip dark with her juices. I haven’t been this achingly hard in years — so swollen it throbs with every heartbeat, the kind of erection that makes my breath catch and my balls draw tight. My moans are interrupted by college kids clattering chicken tenders into the air fryer. Beeps. Whirr. Laughter.

I’m standing in front of the mirror, yanking on my cock, taking perverse selfies because she demands them. Bottle clanks echo down the hall. Living voices swell in a house that’s supposed to be an empty nest.

Door locked.

Half-bath full of dirty want.

There are evenings when the wife softly snores that I’ll slide out of bed. Glide as a ghost across our bedroom to our walk-in closet. My sanctuary when the house is full. I strip and slide down the sidewall facing the full-length mirror.

I see what I wish she could see.

Both of them. Either of them.

The woman who knows exactly what to do with a man like this. Who named things in me I didn’t have words for. Who found the ache already there and gave it somewhere to go.

And my wife. Who knew me before I knew myself. Who sleeps ten feet away not knowing that I’m here, on our closet floor, completely undone among her dresses.

She didn’t create the need. She found it waiting.

That thought burns.

There’s a cruelty in the distance that also might be its gift. What the body can’t have, the heart compensates for. What the hands can’t touch, the imagination builds from scratch — more vivid, more consuming, more devastating than anything proximity would allow.

We’ve been forced entirely into language.

Into voice.

Into the specific electricity of being known through words alone.

That’s the trap.

That’s also why I can’t stop.

It’s all video snippets now — forty seconds of incremental sin. My ragged moans followed by her good-girl groans bouncing digitally between continents. I record how completely she wrecks me: stroking like she commands, pulling my balls, pinching my nipples, cock angry and purple in my fist against the backdrop of marital normalcy. I demand the same in return.

“Slap that slutty cunt for me.”

She obeys as beautifully as she commands. The wet sounds carry through the headphones and straight into my spine.

When I finally spill it’s an eruption I haven’t felt since my late twenties — thick ropes that paint my knuckles and the closet floor while my whole body shakes. She makes me feel virile again. Restored. That’s the real drug for men my age, isn’t it? Not just the orgasm, but the sharp, terrifying thrill of being someone’s specific filthy desire. Of mattering that viscerally to another person’s fantasy.

What follows in my post-nut-clarity isn’t guilt.

It’s being seen.

Being realized by her.

Being undone and remade in the same breath.

I sit on the closet floor lost in the moment. Her voice note still warm in my ear. The wardrobes of my life hanging witness around me.

Then I clean up. Slide back across the bedroom. Slip in beside my wife.

She stirs slightly.

Doesn’t wake.

We dream.

The study is my early morning before the dawn and her late night after her house has settled. My caffeinated kickstart contrasting her wine wind down. It’s here that the favor gets returned. My evenings become her mornings. My hunger becomes her undoing.

I edge her through the remnants of her day. I work her over with words. Tell her how to touch. How to spread. How to push her fingers while she thinks of Daddy’s cock. She succumbs to my cravings half a world away. Her wetness webbed between glistening fingers. I demand the evidence.

She breaks in shudders as the dawn breaks my horizon.

I feel the echo of her orgasm close her day as I begin mine.

It’s in my faculty office when she wakes. We stir our days together in live voice chats — mundane and electric at once. Each time we hear each other, live, living, breathing, it’s entirely new.

Every time the first time.

The energy that flows between us moves the tides.

Our romance, asynchronous for now. Professional schedules. Familial schedules. Time zones that don’t cooperate and family lives that won’t pause.

We have said things that cannot be unsaid.

Felt things that cannot be unfelt.

For now, we have the stars.

Different ones.

Both ours.

A massive thank you to the remarkable for lending her sultry, sexy, Aussie voice to this story. 😘 🥵
She left me completely wrecked… get ready because she’ll do the same to you, too.

“Look at you…

…God, just — look at you.”

She runs her hands across his chest first. Slow. Possessive. Down his stomach, her fingers light and deliberate. Tracing every ridge like she’s memorizing territory. Taking her time.

Then lower.

Her hand finds him.

“How is it a guy like you — with such a perfect body — have such a small, disappointing dick?”

Not cruel exactly. Genuinely puzzled. Like the math just doesn’t add up and she’s standing there doing it again to make sure.

She holds him there for a moment. Thinking.

Then something shifts in her expression. The disappointment converting into something more interesting. More useful.

She reaches under her skirt.

Slides her thong down her legs in one fluid motion. Steps out of it. Holds it up between two fingers — black satin, still warm — and watches his face while he processes what’s happening.

“Smell me first.”

She presses the fabric to his face. Watches his eyes close. Watches his breathing change. Watches that disappointing dick twitch with sudden, desperate interest.

“Mm. Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

She wraps the satin loosely around his shaft. Strokes him slowly. The fabric doing what her hand won’t. What her pussy definitely won’t. She watches him come completely undone over a pair of knickers.

Noted.

“You’re going to be fun.”

She releases him.

“Now put them on.”

She steps back. Crosses her arms. Watches.

He steps into them. Pulls them up.

She goes quiet for a moment — which is not something she does often or easily — because the sight is genuinely arresting. That body. Those legs. That ridiculous perfect ass filling out her thong in a way that makes her press her thighs together slightly before she catches herself.

“Well.”

A beat.

“I didn’t expect that.”

“You look so fucking good in those.”

She circles him slowly. Taking in the full picture.

“Your whole body is insane and then there’s just — this sweet little situation happening in front.”

She comes back around. Tilts her head.

“Keep it tucked like that. Yeah. Your cute little panty bulge.” She reaches out and adjusts his tiny bulge through the satin. Matter of fact. Like she’s arranging flowers. “Is it uncomfortable?”

She grins before he can answer.

“Ha. That’s the only way that cock would make anything uncomfortable.”

She crouches slightly. Looks her fill.

“God, those balls though. Packed in there.” A light tap with two fingers. “That’s the only thing you’d fill out.”

She stands back up. Still grinning.

“Turn around.”

He turns.

The sound she makes is involuntary and she knows it and doesn’t care.

“I knew it. That ass is obscene.” Her hands find his hips, then slide back. “I saw you running track in those soccer shorts and I just — I followed those calves up to your thighs, then this.” A firm appreciative squeeze. “Every time you passed by I’d flush. Flushed. Me. Can you imagine?”

She steps back. Looks him up and down one more time.

“Turn back around.”

He turns.

“I thought you were fucking cute,” she says. Quieter now. Almost to herself. “Like something I wanted to destroy.”

“You want to know how this happened?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

“I saw you running track… yeah. I have to have that. Whatever that is, I have to have it.”

She sits on the edge of the bed. Crosses her legs. Completely at ease.

“So I sat next to the track. Did a butterfly stretch.” A pause. “You know the one… legs spread wide, shorts riding up”

She lets that land.

“I had an inkling you’d try to sneak a peek up my Umbro shorts.” She tilts her head. “You did, didn’t you.”

Not a question. A verdict.

“You saw these exact panties.”

She watches his face confirm it.

“And now look at you. Wearing them like the little panty slut you were always meant to be”

A beat. She uncrosses her legs. Recrosses them the other way.

“I knew you were kinky the second I saw you. I have a way of picking out switchy guys when I want one. Something about the eyes. The way they move. You were practically advertising.”

She smiles.

“Then the bet. You remember the bet.”

Another verdict.

“I knew you’d lose. Honestly I just wanted to fuck at that point — hadn’t quite figured out the rest yet.” She glances at him standing there in her thong. “But then I saw that cock and had to recalibrate.”

She stands. Circles him again.

“Funny how things work out.”

“Oh — I have to show Beth.”

She’s already reaching for her phone.

“Lie on the bed. I promise I won’t get your face.” She’s not really asking. “Spread your legs. Wider.”

She takes the first photo. Studies it. Takes another.

“She’s not going to believe me. That tiny thing tucked in my thong… God, it looks even smaller in pictures.”

A third photo. This one from behind.

“God, she’s going to lose her mind over that ass.”

She’s texting before he’s even moved. Typing fast, the way she does everything — decided, no second drafts. She props the phone on her knee and looks up at him while she waits.

“Beth and I have been best friends since forever. We’ve also been fucking each other since forever.” Completely conversational. “I’m bi. Fully, happily, not as a performance. We scissor. We grind. We do whatever we want.” A small shrug. “I mention this because it’s relevant to your immediate future.”

The phone buzzes.

She reads it. Grins. Turns the screen so he can’t quite see it.

“She says these knickers look better on you than on me.” A beat. “She’s not wrong.”

Another buzz.

“She wants to know if we can all play sometime.” She sets the phone face down on the nightstand. “I told her maybe. We’ll see if you’re a good little panty bitch for me first.”

She stands.

“Here’s what that would look like, just so you understand the terms — we’d use you. That’s it. You wouldn’t fuck either of us. You’d watch us get off and then we’d have our fun with you.” She tilts her head. “Think you could handle that?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer because his face already gave her one.

His cock twitches helplessly in her thong.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“Roll over. Hands behind your head. Don’t touch me.”

She straddles him without warning.

Takes a moment just looking down at him — spread out beneath her, hands behind his head, wearing her thong like he was made for this specific purpose. Which, she’s decided, he was.

“Stay still.”

She lowers herself onto him, slowly, deliberately, until her bare, soaking wet pussy presses directly against the front of her own black satin… the one currently struggling to contain his pathetic little dick. She adjusts. Finds the angle.

“Oh.”

Not performative. Genuinely surprised.

“Oh, that’s—”

She shifts her weight forward slightly. Rolls her hips. Feels his cock — small, hard, insistent — slot perfectly between her slick folds through the silk fabric.

“Hm. Yeah.”

She picks up a slow rhythm. Testing it. Her hands flat on his chest, not for his benefit but for her leverage. She rolls her hips in slow, filthy circles. The head of his tiny cock pokes useless against the satin, barely making a bump under her dripping cunt.

“Look at that,” she laughs softly, looking down between them. “I can barely even feel your dick. It’s just this sad little lump rubbing against my clit. Like a fucking button.”

She presses down harder, smearing her wetness all over the front of the thong. The satin is dark and clinging to his small shaft.

“God, this is perfect. Your tiny cock is literally the best clit vibrator I’ve ever used. So hard and so fucking small. I don’t even have to worry about it slipping inside me.”

Her rhythm picks up. She’s riding the front of the thong like it’s a toy made specifically for her. Every roll of her hips drags her swollen clit over his trapped dicklet.

“You’re leading so much,” she mocks, reaching down to smear precum across the satin with her fingers. “Making such a mess in my pretty panties. Such a desperate little panty slut.”

She starts grinding faster, harder, using his cock like a living sex toy.

“You know I ride Beth like this all the time,” she pans, voice getting breathier. “Both of us in knickers, just grinding until we’re completely wrecked.” Her hips keep moving while she talks, completely unselfconscious about it. “I wasn’t sure a cock would feel the same. Turns out size works in your favor here.”

A beat.

“Don’t let that go to your head… because I get to feel just how pathetic you are while I use you.”

She finds the right spot and her sentence stops mid-thought. Recovers.

“It’s like my bullet vibe. Better, actually, because you’re warm.” She presses down harder. “And desperate.”

Her rhythm shifts. Less exploratory now, more deliberate. Her breath changing register. Her hips move faster now, almost frantic. The wet sounds of her soaked pussy sliding over satin fill the room.

“You’re so hard.” Almost wondering. “And I’m still not going to fuck you. This is it. This is all you get.”

She rolls her hips again.

“Don’t move. Right there — don’t you dare move. Don’t you dare cum,” she growls. “This is my orgasm. Your little dick is just here to help me get off.”

She grinds down hard, rubbing her clit directly over his cock head through the thong. “Fuck, I’m so close. Your tiny cock feels so good right there. So cute and useless… just a little wet spot for me to ride.”

She reaches down and pinches one of his nipples hard as she starts to shake.

She can feel him straining underneath her. The specific tension of someone trying very hard to hold still.

“Looks like you can’t hold back.”

She doesn’t slow down.

“Go ahead. Cum. I don’t care — okay, I care a little. It’s hot if we go at the same time.” Her voice dropping now, less composed. “I’m close. I feel that little cock already. Do you feel your balls pulling up in my knickers?”

He does. Obviously he does.

“That’s it.” Her hips moving faster. “Cum for me. Right now. Don’t make me wait.”

She feels him go.

“Fuck—”

Her own control dissolving now, the satin soaked and warm between them, his cock pulsing underneath her while she chases the last of it, grinding harder, completely past caring about anything except the specific friction she’s found.

“Stay right there. I don’t care about your mess. Stop writhing — I’m almost—”

She gets there.

The sound she makes fills the room.

Afterward she stays on top. Catching her breath. Her hair fallen forward. The composed, precise Jenny of twenty minutes ago temporarily unavailable.

She comes back slowly.

Looks down at him.

“Goddamn.” A satisfied, slightly dazed smile.

A long exhale.

“I did not expect you to make me cum that hard.”

She stays exactly where she is for another moment. Not ready to move. Not performing the stillness — just genuinely in it.

“What a surprise.”

She climbs off him.

Looks at the situation. The soaked satin. The mess. His spent cock still tucked inside her ruined thong.

“Arch up.”

She slides them off him in one motion. Thick strands of their mixed cum stretch between the satin and his cock. She holds them up. Studies them the way a painter studies a finished canvas — something completed, something that exceeded the brief.

“Look at that. You made such a big load for such a tiny cock.”

She balls them up deliberately. Slowly. Watching his face while she does it.

“Open your mouth.”

He obeys.

She stuffs the cum-soaked satin between his lips, pushing it deep enough that he can taste both of them. Steps back. Looks at him — sprawled across her bed, wrecked, her thong balled up in his mouth like a still life of everything that just happened.

“There.”

Satisfied. Complete.

“That’s your cum. That’s my cum. Fuck if I know whose is whose at this point.” She reaches for her discarded skirt. Steps into it. “Doesn’t really matter.”

She reaches for her phone, completely topless and unbothered. Checks it. Texts Beth something brief that she doesn’t share.

Gets dressed with the unhurried efficiency of someone whose afternoon went exactly as planned. Better than planned. She’ll revise the plan upward accordingly.

At the door she stops.

Turns. Comes back.

He’s still on the bed. Still exactly where she left him. Panties in his mouth. Thoroughly finished. Sprawled on the bed. Cock soft and glistening.

She looks at him for a long moment.

“I just knew you’d be up for anything.” A small smile. Almost tender. “I just didn’t expect us to end up quite here.”

She leans down and kisses his forehead, picks up her keys.

“Text me if you want to race again.”

A beat.

“Maybe next time Beth and I will show up at your track meet.”

She leaves the door open on her way out.

X+Os, Jenny

Smutty Simmons

Most of what I write is about longing. Paid subscribers just get closer to it.

The asphalt felt already soft by nine in the morning. Heat rising off the street, stinging my calves through my shoes. I shifted nervously, scanning the oncoming crowd, waiting for the first stranger to open their arms.

I’d never done anything like this before. As an introvert, I was way outside my comfort zone.

Debbie, the coordinator (a sweet progressive in her late forties) came to check on me. “Don’t be anxious. People will love that you’re here. Trust me. And yes… you’re going to get sweaty and covered in glitter.”

“Sounds like a fun time!” I gave a shy smile.

She wasn’t wrong about either.

The first round of hugs was meaningful in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I always give solid, warm embraces. Here, people commented on how good they felt, held like that, as they moved through the crowded street. Something loosened in me with each one.

Then came my first person to cry on me.

I wasn’t ready for that.

He said his dad disowned him when he came out. Said they hadn’t spoken in nearly fifteen years. He broke in literal sobs on my shoulder. He didn’t want to let go.

Neither did I.

With the joyful embraces I’d say “Happy Pride!” With the emotional ones, I always say “You are loved.”

A few embraces later, a woman held on longer than most. Through tears she told me her dad had passed earlier that year.

I held her too.

There’s a particular weight to grief at Pride. The celebration and the loss occupying the same crowded street simultaneously. Joy and mourning pressed together in the heat.

By the end of the day I was emotionally spent in the best possible way. While my social cup had emptied completely, my empathy cup had filled just as fast.

My wife Meghan and I have been giving Free Mom (&Dad) Hugs at Pride festivals for four years now. Free Mom Hugs is an organization that promotes love and acceptance within the LGBTQ+ community. A sweet progressive, Sara Cunningham, started it. People like Debbie make it run in our area.

Now more than ever, the organization needs us out there.

It’s not always tears. I’ve had energetic women flirt with me for solving their daddy issues… their words, not mine.

That was fun…

But… last year a new member of our group, Connie, was genuinely baffled by my presence. There aren’t many dads who do this, though our numbers have grown over the years. Connie studied me because I didn’t fit her available categories.

“You’re straight,” she said. Less a question; more a verdict.

“Yes. And?”

“That’s your wife?” She nodded toward Meghan.

“Correct.”

“You have kids?”

“Two. Both young men.”

“Is one of them gay?”

“No,” I flummoxed. “But if they were, I’m okay with that.”

“Anyone in your family gay?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I think a cousin is severely in denial,” trying to bring levity to her inquisition.

She almost smiled at that. Almost.

“Then — forgive me — you’re masculine.”

“Thanks?”

“Why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if your kids aren’t gay, why are you out here giving hugs?”

“Because love is love,” I said.

She paused on that.

“I don’t care who gets your naughty bits all tingly,” I softly shrugged. “If you love them and it’s consensual, that’s all we need.”

“Did you grow up somewhere up North?”

“No. Small Southern Baptist town. In a lower state.”

“You don’t sound like it. You don’t look like it either.” She studied me again. “You look a lot like my brother. You even act like him.” A beat. “He’d never be caught at Pride.”

“Sucks for him.”

She stood there for a moment, working something out. A cis, straight, married man in his early fifties. Southern Baptist upbringing. No gay kids. No obvious personal stake.

Just here.

She couldn’t find the category. I wasn’t in it.

The man who sobbed on my shoulder fifteen years after his father said no — he didn’t need a sermon or a movement or a political statement.

He needed a hug from a dad…

… and I had one to give.

Now… go get organized!

Happy Pride!
Much love,
Paul

My wife has a new dildo. Well, it's relatively new. She's had it for a few months now. It's a thick, Black mammoth monstrosity of nine-plus inches of veiny, heavy silicone with a suction cup base. I find it in random places, too — on the bedside table (yes, that's obvious, but MY bedside table???), by the bathroom sink standing straight as a black tower overshadowing my electric toothbrush, or on top of our highboy dresser as I slip into boxer briefs with the dong reminding me of my modest manhood.

The gigantic phallus skulks about the peripheries of my life and in the most unassuming places, I find it erect, demanding, and demeaning. I'm brushing my teeth. The task is oral enough, never mind this cock standing right there. I pump my toothbrush in and out of my mouth while looking at the dildo. It happens within everyday tasks, silently scolding me like some third-rate shift-manager: "Got time to peen, got time to clean."

Strange sounds shake me in the night. Groans accompanied by heavy panting. Creaks in the bedsprings. The soft slam of the bathroom door. A border of light crept across the carpet of our bedroom. What's happening in there?

In the dawn of disheveled covers, I noticed evidence everywhere: shadowy indentations of bite marks on her pillow; the remnants of tousled hair strands; I've even traversed over pajama bottoms with panties coiled inside them on my way to our walk-in closet.

All of these scenes hijack my masturbatory imagination. Flashes of my wife, full of cock, completely in awe with her cunt stretched satisfactorily to its limits — all of this floods my mind as I pathetically wank in our closed closet. I think of her consumed by the massive phallus. Slowly working it in. Completely fulfilled.

I wonder why she hasn't introduced this toy while we're together. Is she worried about how I'd take it? Yet she leaves the monster haphazardly about as a blatant reminder. A metaphorical dick-slap to my face.

Our sex has become pure maintenance. Clit rub. Dick stroke. Missionary, then doggie until I cum. Roll over. Sigh. So I’m honestly glad she’s found something that actually satisfies her. Still… the thought burns.

Now, as I stroke my pathetic cock in the walk-in closet, I see the fake phallus looming over me. Sitting triumphantly on a high shelf on her side. I'm inhaling her damp panties while furiously fucking my hand. I drool and let it drop upon my dicklet. All I can do is dream of her stretched-out snatch. Her swollen, glistening labia pulling upon the massive brown shaft as it plummets into her depths — depths I could never reach. I hear echoes of her moans from my slumbers. I picture her head tossed backward in ecstasy, surrendering to the assault on her cervix. The big dildo balls deep.

I stop jerking off. I just stare at it. Up there, on the top shelf of her side of the closet. It's incredibly alluring. Maybe this is what she's doing intentionally. She's tempting me. I consider what she must feel when she sees this beautiful, perfect specimen. Honestly, I want it inside me too. I see myself as her. I step out of my boxer briefs and slip on her used panties — the ones I'd been sniffing. I slide them all the way up to encase my small dick in satin.

Yes, I'm wearing her panties.

Yes, I grabbed her dildo.

Yes, I licked the tip. Listen, I couldn't help it. It looked so yummy.

I wondered what she must've felt, how she could've accommodated its mass in her willing mouth. So I took the whole cockhead between my lips as drool dripped down my torso. I imagined the taste of my wife's used cunt on this massive Black shaft. I took what I could down my throat. (It wasn't much.) I thought about what she would've looked like, so I went to my knees and deep-throated the dildo.

I imagined she would've rubbed her clit through her panties, so I did the same. Small circles upon my frenulum over the satin. Fuck, the feeling was incredible. I wanted this Black dick to pummel my throat. I pumped and gagged over it while circling my satin-covered clit. Goddamn, my little dick felt so wonderful encased in her soft, silky panties. My palm slid along my shaft as I gripped my balls, pulled on them, then went for my asshole.

Pressure plays among my starfish. All of this on the outside of my wife's satin panties. I felt so fucking dirty soiling her precious lingerie with my perversions.

Suddenly I wanted to be her bitch. I wanted her to fucking use me. I wanted her to take an actual big Black cock in my presence. I longed to see a massive cock filling her, stretching her pussy to the brink. Something I could never do. I lusted after its shaft coated in her cum, their cum — it didn't matter.

I envisioned her comparing us. "Fuck, that's hot," I thought as I pulled her panties down to cup my balls. My measly dick sticking straight out, curved upward like a question mark nobody asked. I plucked the Black dildo from my mouth and aimed its massive cockhead at my balls tucked outside my wife's satin panties. My dick didn't come close. It was laughable. It might have surpassed three inches past the massive head, and that's an exaggeration.

How on earth did she take this in her pussy? Well, the only way to find out is to try to take it in my own ass.

I tried. I failed. It was too fucking big. At least for now.

I sat with that — at least for now — for a moment longer than was comfortable.

I pulled her panties back up. Carefully. The way you handle something that isn't yours, that you've borrowed without asking, that you need to return without evidence. I straightened the waistband. Smoothed the satin.

I finished the way I started. Hand. Panties. The massive head pressed against my balls as a reminder of everything I wasn't. I came quietly, the way you do when you're keeping a secret from yourself.

Afterward I stood there for a moment in the dark of her closet, her panties cooling against my skin, her dildo in my hand.

I cleaned it carefully. Thoroughly. The way you clean something you plan to use again.

I placed it back on the high shelf. Adjusted it until it sat exactly as I'd found it — triumphant, erect, looking down at me.

I slipped out of her panties. Folded them. Set them back where they'd been.

I padded back to bed. Slid under the covers. Lay in the dark listening to her breathe beside me.

The dildo was back on its shelf.

Nothing had changed.

Everything had.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time before I finally closed my eyes.

Feeling the weight of it.

I should be grading expository finals but all I can really think about is her. With every red mark I make on the page, I envision the red welts I left on her skin.

(They took ages, Professor. Every time I sat down I could feel your feedback on my skin.)

Even now, when I’m supposed to be doing something else, she’s in my head. The bratty tone she’s never quite able to keep out of her voice whispering in the back of my mind as I picture what she let me do.

The flogger painted pink streaks across her shoulder blades. She’d moaned, but not deep enough. I worked the lashes across her lower back. A lip bite was all I earned. A few sharp strikes to the soft crescents of her ass, barely covered by that burgundy satin tanga.

“Is that the best you’ve got, Professor.”

She’s always the brat. Always topping-from-the-bottom. This is why she is anchored to the St. Andrew’s cross. That’s why I keep coming back.

(You act like you don't enjoy it… and we both know that's simply not true.)

“You really want the horse bit, don’t you?” Swak! “Of course, you’d only mumble your obstinance around it.” Another lash kissed the back of her upper thigh. The red welts rose instantly, bright and angry.

Some experiences cannot be fully understood until the body has processed what the mind refused to anticipate.

There's a delicate balance in that. I underline it twice. I note nothing.

This is the nature of causal chains — one event producing the next with a logic that only becomes visible in retrospect.

‘Transition needed here,’ I scrawl in the margin.

The transition from her back to her front on the cross was smooth. We’ve done this dance enough times. Quick release cuffs. She plays the game beautifully, even when she’s breaking every rule of it.

(Mmmm. Yes I do. There's a reason you keep tying me to that cross, Sir. And it's not just because you like the way my ass reddens all pretty for you.)

There’s something about the front of her body that I prefer to keep as a blank page. Porcelain skin. Freckles scattered like constellations. I love tracking them with my fingertips, connecting the dots, unlocking her.

The only marks I want to leave here are vessels broken. Skin sucked bruises. Teeth marks. The faint imprint of clamps, perhaps. It depends on how defiant she stays.

That night she wanted to be broken.

‘Thesis unclear. What is the central argument?’ The pen bleeds upon the page.

Jennie wanted her mascara to run. She wanted to feel used. She wanted to feel nothing and everything at once. She’d told me as much with her eyes during negotiation; that daring, challenging look that said I’m not sure you can give me what I need.

I could.

(I knew you could. Never really questioned it. How could I? When you were so determined, your eyes burned with an unfiltered need to tie me up and mark me. But what kind of self-respecting brat would I be if I didn't challenge you once in a while?)

Anchored facing forward, she looked beautifully disheveled. Chest rising and falling in matching burgundy lace. I pulled the cups of her bra down, exposing her breasts, the bunched underwire pushing up like an offering. I slapped them hard–flat, stinging cracks–then pinched, pulled, and pawed until she gasped.

I didn’t waste time. She was already soaked. Legs spread wide. Ankles bound. The front of her satin tanga embarrassingly dark and clinging obscenely to her swollen lips.

I grabbed her throat. Tight. Eyes locked. My other hand slapped her cunt–sharp, wet sounds filling the room.

“Whose slutty pussy is this?”

(As if you didn't already know. Who else could make me this hungry? This wet? You just wanted to hear me say it.)

“Yours,” she smirked.

Swak! Right across her clit. A brief, delicious wince.

“Think you’re ready to be my mindless whore tonight?”

“I think so.”

“Wrong answer.” Another stinging slap to her clit. My grip on her throat tightened.

“Yes, Sir.” She bit her lip. Her doe-eyes edging a bratty surrender. Still performing. Still negotiating from the cross. Still Jennie.

I clamped her nipples. Bit a trail of pink marks down her belly. Then I dropped to my knees. Her scent enraptured me. I buried my face in her soaked satin, deeply inhaling her. She arched hard, trying to grind against my mouth. It took all my resolve to pull back.

(I bet you're still thinking about how I smell, lover. Still hoping to catch the reminder of me on your beard.)

“I love watching you writhe.” I grinned.

“I want your tongue in me,” she whimpered.

“Not yet.”

The two most powerful words in the room. She hated them. She needed them.

(I need YOU.)

I teased her labia with my thumbs, massaging the outer lips, slowly working inward. I pulled the satin aside. Thick strings of shimmering grool followed the fabric. My mouth watered. I stood up before I lost control.

Three fingers slid into her effortlessly.

“Drenched,” I murmured. That was all that needed saying.

I curled them, stroking her front wall while my thumb pressed firmly on her clit. I held the pressure. She moved around it. Trying to direct something she couldn’t control.

“Are you going to be a good little fuck toy for me?” I growled.

She moaned an affirmative.

Her eyes begged. She wanted more. She always wanted more. This was the particular problem of Jennie — she had an appetite that made you want to feed it just to see how far it went.

(I don’t know if that’s a game you’re ready for, Professor.)

I sparked up the Hitachi. Held the bulbous vibrating head to her aching nub. Immediate shudders. I shoved my cunt-slick fingers into her mouth. She sucked greedily as her body buckled on the cross.

“Good girl.”

(Debatable.)

I held the Wand in place. We found that boundary between pleasure and pain and stayed there. Her eyes watered through her convulsions. The first black streak of mascara ran down her cheek.

The initial cause, however small, however seemingly inconsequential, sets in motion a sequence of effects that cannot be undone. The subject rarely sees it coming. That is, perhaps, the point.

I bracket this in the margin. I was going to write something, but it got away from me.

(I’m proving to be such a distraction, Sir. Your focus should be on grading these papers. Instead, you’re sitting here, thinking about my little cunt? Thinking about the way my body reacts to your admittedly intoxicating attention? Gosh, Professor.)

Students cross the grassy mall outside my window, heading to their next exam.

We released Jennie from the cross, and walked her, legs quivering, to the spanking bench. I strapped her down, then slipped a blindfold over her eyes.

She has no idea what’s coming.

I did.

I’d arranged it.

Which was its own particular thing to sit with.

I slowly circled her, taking her in from every angle. I slid the soaked burgundy tanga all the way to the side, fully exposing her ass and glistening cunt. A cold drizzle of lube made goosebumps ripple down her thighs. I eased a thick vibrating plug into her ass, working it slowly until it seated deep. I clicked it to a low, steady thrum.

The paddle came next.

Hard, measured whacks delivered in quick succession. Her cheeks bloomed a beautiful, red glow. I rubbed them tenderly between rounds, letting the heat sink in. She loves this juxtaposition. The tenderness inside the cruelty.

I pressed the plug deeper. She arched hard, pushing back against it.

Hungry.

Consider the mechanics of inevitability. When a force is introduced into a controlled environment, the environment must accommodate it. (Avoid passive construction.)

Passive construction.

I set the pen down.

The worker’s long gait across the dungeon floor carried its own swagger. Jennie caught a glimpse of his beige suede work boots as they stopped at the head of the bench. She grinned the moment she heard his belt clink open, the pop of buttons, the slow unzip of his jeans.

(I’m going to be honest with you, Professor. When I first realised you’d invited someone else, I was a little disappointed. Don’t you know I just need you? But then… I saw his cock… and everything made sense again.)

He unfurled a thick, heavy, veiny cock–easily three inches longer and much thicker than mine–and pressed the fat head against her lips. She moaned like a slut as he fed it to her. Her jaw nearly unhinged taking his length and girth. A wet gargle. A small choke. He pulled back just enough for her to breathe, then plunged deeper, fucking her face with long, confident strokes.

“That’s it,” I praised from behind her. “Suck his cock for me.”

I moved around and slipped four fingers into her dripping cunt, finger-fucking her in time with his thrusts into her mouth. His grease-stained hands gripped the back of her head. No negotiation.

I pushed the plug in deeper. Kicked the vibe to level three.

“You’re cock drunk,” I laughed, feeling her pussy spasm and flutter around my fingers. Her legs started shaking again. “On the brink already, you greedy little girl?”

I wasn’t about to let her cum, yet. I pulled my fingers out with a wet schlick, grabbed the paddle, and delivered another round of sharp, stinging swats across her glowing ass.

Mr. Construction grabbed her throat, felt himself bulge there. “She takes it like she needs it,” he said. Not to me. Not to anyone. Just a fact that needed saying out loud.

(I couldn’t say it at the time— obviously— but this? Speaking about me like I wasn’t even there? And then the feeling of your possession surging through the paddle? Sir, you could’ve done anything to me in that moment, and I would’ve thanked you. Could’ve shoved your cock into my ass along with the plug and I would have begged you for more.)

I felt the surprising sting of possession. I released this on Jennie’s ass with another hard swak.

The subject has no choice but to receive what has been arranged for her. She was made to take it. She took all of it. (Passive. Who is the subject here?)

This is not weakness. This is physics.

Jennie’s surrender owned the entire room. Even blindfolded, the brat was running the scene.

(The tone you’re using here sounds like you’re surprised. Surely you already knew this brat is always topping from the bottom.)

Work boots pulled his thick cock from her throat, let his dirty jeans drop to his ankles, and shoved his heavy, musky balls into her mouth. She licked and sucked greedily. The sounds she made. He slapped her dangling tits hard, mauling them with his massive hands.

He stood quite the opposite of me.

This is what she wanted.

This is what I delivered.

The variable, once introduced, cannot be removed. Its effect on the system is immediate and total. Size, in this context, matters enormously — not as a value judgment but as a measurable quantity producing measurable effects. (Word choice.)

(Funny, Sir. This is a lot of fancy words to say he has a big cock and you’re still fucking thinking about it…)

“Why does this student keep reminding me,” I mutter, my marginal notes more hurried.

“She’s dripping for your cock now,” I told him, voice rough.

We shifted, circled. He moved behind her as I moved in front. I slipped the blindfold off.

“I want you to look at me as he fucks you,” I said. “I want to see your eyes. Your full expression as his cock stretches you open for the first time.”

“Oh, god,” Jennie moaned.

Mr. Construction didn’t tease. Didn’t take the time to coat himself with her wetness. He just plunged in one long, powerful stroke. He took. He knew she would receive it. He knew exactly how badly she needed it.

A larger variable produces a larger response. The subject's response, in this case, was considerable. Audible. Ongoing. (Fragment. — ed.)

(Is this your nerdy way of saying the man used that deliciously huge cock to make me come loudly and for an extended period of time? Because if so… Well, it’s accurate. But it also feels rude.)

It is worth noting that the subject had been adequately prepared for the introduction of the variable. Warmed, one might say. Opened. (Unclear antecedent.) The preparation, however thorough, does not fully account for the difference in magnitude between what the subject was accustomed to and what was ultimately introduced. (This sentence is too long and — never mind.) The gap between expectation and reality is itself a cause producing its own chain of effects.

Jennie’s eyes went wide, then rolled back. A huge, guttural “FUCK” tore out of her followed by deep, animalistic moans as her pussy stretched around his thickness.

“Fuck, Professor. He’s so big. I feel so fucking full. He’s hitting places you’ve never touched.”

(You love that, don’t you? That’s what’s still living rent free in your head, isn’t it Sir? That I fucking loved getting destroyed by that big, fat cock rather than your… smaller version.)

Her mascara ran a second time.

(Messy girl.)

The subject’s initial response was involuntary. A sharp intake of breath. A sound that had no academic vocabulary. (Good.) The variable pressed forward with the confidence of something that had never been told no and had no reason to anticipate it now. The subject accommodated. The subject more than accommodated. (Redundant. I know. I know.)

“That’s it,” I said softly. “Take his cock.”

Jennie bit her lip, moaning in that sing-song way she does when she’s completely lost. Mindless. Completely his. Completely owned.

I had to reel it in. I knelt down, face to face with her, and grabbed her throat.

“You’re mine,” I whispered, eyes locked on hers. “Don’t forget it.”

(That possessive streak gets me every time. Even when you’re sharing me, I always know who I belong to. I know I didn’t say anything, Sir. But I hope you could see it. I hope my eyes told you I hadn't forgotten. Even when my body said something more complicated.)

What the outside observer experiences in such moments is a separate causal chain entirely. Observation produces its own effects. The act of watching something you arranged but cannot participate in generates a specific taxonomy of feeling — part pride, part loss, part something that has no clean academic name but lives in the chest like a splinter. (Metaphor mixed.)

I walked around behind them. He was putting on a show now–long, powerful strokes, balls slapping her clit. Her pussy lips clung obscenely to his thick shaft, frothy white cream gathered at the base. Every thrust made her squeal.

I felt that strange splinter again–pride, loss, and something that had no clean academic name.

Could he sense my willingness to serve? If he’d grabbed the back of my head, I would’ve.

But I didn’t.

(I wish he had. I wish I could accurately explain how badly I’d like to see you take a cock in your mouth. Or how soaked it would’ve made me, to feel your tongue pressed against where he and I joined.)

(How long are you going to pretend that’s not what you want?)

The variable continued its work. The subject continued receiving it. The observer continued watching. This is the nature of causal chains — once set in motion, they proceed according to their own logic, indifferent to the observer’s feelings about the outcome. (Strong thesis.)

“Do you want him to cum inside your stretched, slutty cunt, baby girl?” I whispered in her ear.

“Fuck yes. Please give me your cum,” she cried.

“Beg him,” I said.

In conclusion, some causes produce effects that exceed the original intention of the person who set them in motion. The architect of a situation is not always its primary beneficiary. This is not a failure of planning. This is the honest result of wanting something badly enough to arrange it, then discovering that arrangement and possession are not the same thing.

“Please,” Jennie groaned, voice breaking. “Please cum in me.”

Her whole body spasmed under the beg.

He gave a grunt. Her whole body quaked as he buried himself deep, flooding her. His fingerprints marked her hips as he held her there through the pulses.

He pulled out slowly, leaving her gaping and leaking. Walked around front, and fed his cum-covered cock back into her mouth. She cleaned him gratefully, moaning around his length. When he finally pulled free, shiny and spent, he zipped up and left without a word.

(Used. Like a toy.)

I fingered her sloppy, cum-filled cunt. “Such a massive load,” I praised. “From such a massive cock.”

I started loosening the straps.

“No,” coaxed the brat, still shaking. “We’re not done yet.”

(I wonder if you could feel me trembling. I wonder if you knew it wasn’t just from what he’d already done. But in anticipation of what you were about to do.)

(Put the red pen down, Professor. The papers can wait. I want you to pull that petite, perfect cock out and start stroking. Replay what you did to me next.)

“It’s your turn,” Jennie purred, shaking her ass in the restraints. Mr. Construction’s cum was already trickling down her thigh.

I sank into her used, cum-slick cunt. What they’d left behind enveloped me immediately. Hot. Soft. Impossibly open. Her walls stretched around me differently than they ever had before — accommodating something smaller after something larger, a fact my cock understood before the rest of me caught up.

I watched myself slide in and out coated in another man’s load, thick white cream frothed around my shaft and dripped down our legs.

Jennie laughed softly, breathy, and cruel as I began pumping harder. My hands now where his once were. My cock swelling inside the absence he’d left. The difference unmistakable. The sensation overwhelming.

Both owning and being owned. Control and surrender. The same man. The same hands. The same cock that had arranged all of this now moving inside its own arrangement.

(You fucked me like you owned me. Like every thrust was a punctuation mark in my time with him. An ending. Pushing the other man’s come into me was just another way to mark your territory.)

She looked over her shoulder.

“That’s it, Professor,” she cooed, brat to the very end. “Fuck his cum deeper into me.”

And I did.

I came hard. Harder than I had in months. Spasming inside her already-full cunt, adding my own load to his. The humiliation of it pushed me deeper into the orgasm.

Back at my desk, hand still wrapped around my spent cock, the essays still stacked and ungraded. The red pen rests where I left it.

I don’t pick it up.

A-, I’d written on the last one.

It was enough.

I lean back in my chair, cum cooling on my fingers, and smile.

(Lick it up, Professor. I dare you.)

The subject has no choice but to receive what has been arranged for her.

As I lick my fingers, it’s clear the observer doesn’t either.

Smutty Simmons

Most of what I write is about longing. Paid subscribers just get closer to it.

Kinky Ink

I draw the ache. I write the ache. Femdom • Cuckolding • Sph • Bi-MMF NSFW 🔞 | Erotic art + fiction.

By P. K. Hofferman (Kinky Ink)

Paul.
Paul!
PAUL!!!

The notifications arrived in rapid succession, the way Jennie’s did when something had genuinely happened.

What?

Jennie: He sent me a pic. For real this time.

Me: Seriously?

J: Yeah. It’s a really nice dick. Unfortunately he’s an asshole. So, no thanks. Bummer.

There was a lump in my throat, a weight in my chest, and a swell in my shorts. I sat with all three for a moment before typing.

M: What made it so nice?

J: Thumbs up emoji and I’ll let you see it. If you wanna.

Did I really want to see some random dude’s man-meat who’d aggressively intruded on her evening? My finger hovered over the thumb — yellow, cartoony, affirmative. I’ve seen dick pics before. I’ve just never received one. The distinction felt important somehow.

M: 👍

J: For May the 4th, I’m gonna wear my hair in buns.

No. No. No. She changed the topic. I didn’t want to hear about tomorrow. I wanted to know what made her use the phrase really nice dick. Those three words had lodged themselves somewhere between my sternum and my better judgment.

J: Yeah, with my flowy white robe.

M: 👍👍

J: What are you doing for SW’s day?

M: 👍👍👍

J: Paul, still there?

M: 👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍

J: Oooohhhh, you wanna see it, don’t you?

I want to say the thumbs up count that followed was measured and dignified.

It was not.

M: 👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍

J: Are you sure? Once you’ve received one, it kinda changes you. There’s no going back.

M: What do you mean?

J: It’s an unwelcome shock. At first I hated getting them. Made me gun shy to open any stranger’s DM.

I hadn’t considered that. The asymmetry of the experience. She’d been ambushed by these things. I was volunteering.

M: Yeah, I guess that would be unnerving.

J: You have NO IDEA.

M: So it’s weird?

J: How would you feel if some woman sent you a close up of her cunt? You’re humming along, you get that familiar ding and you open it up and it’s all labia unfolding on your screen.

I considered this with more genuine attention than I probably should have.

M: Honestly, I’ve never thought about it. Wanna give it a try? 😉

J: Shut the fuck up.

It was worth a shot.

J: Still want to see it?

Yeah, I typed. I’m curious to see what other guys are working with. I could critique the aesthetics of the image. Provide some constructive criticism.

Your curiosity is intriguing, she replied.

M: And does the pic have a good aesthetic? How’s the rule of thirds handled? Can we appreciate the composition of the image?

There’s a whole art to a good dick pic, Jennie said. But it’s never the ones I get.

M: We could provide constructive feedback for our unsolicited intruder. Better angle, lighting, atmosphere.

J: YES. Okay. You ready?

M: Let’s do it.

She sent the pic.

I want to say I handled it with academic detachment. That I assessed the image with the critical distance of someone who critiques composition for sport. That the rule of thirds comment had been genuine intellectual inquiry.

I want to say that.

The reality: long. Notably long. A pronounced curve. Big headed. He was using his thumb to hold it out straight, which told you something about the curve when unassisted. Shaved, with the pubes beginning to grow back in. The itchy phase he'd inflict on anyone who got close enough. Dark gray sweatpants pulled down just past bare balls. Crumpled bedsheets in the background. A man confirming something to nobody who asked.

Wow, I typed. He put in such little effort here.

J: Right?!?

M: Disappointing. Should’ve at least created an inviting atmosphere.

J: YES! lol

M: Are those sweatpants?

J: I think they’re Walmart boxers.

A beat. Two beats. I was still looking at the image.

“Just confirming his size,” Jennie added. Quoting him.

You know those prickly pubes are itchy as fuck, I typed. Would totally grind you raw.

J: I thought the same thing.

M: You’d need some serious labia aftercare after that. Razor burn in both directions.

She sent a laughing emoji. Then:

J: It’s not a bad dick. I just wasn’t interested in said dick. Also, it’s attached to an even bigger dick.

Yeah, I agreed. Good dick. Bad pic. Horrible human.

J: 100%

M: Personality goes a long way?

J: Absolutely.

I looked at the image again. Then I typed the thing I shouldn’t have typed.

M: I guess I should work on my personality then.

A pause. Longer than her usual pauses.

J: You’re good, babes.

I stared at that for longer than I should have. You’re good, babes. The specific warmth of it. The specific insufficiency of it.

What size was he confirming? I asked, steering us somewhere safer.

J: He made a comment about his size. I made a joke about him not having big dick energy.

Well, I typed. He has the big D but not the energy.

J: 100%

Two beats of silence. Then:

J: I don’t even want dick pics. I just want men to WANT to send me dick pics.

M: So it’s the thought that counts.

J: YES. This! Some men are so stupid. Present company excluded, of course.

I was still looking at the image.

What made it such a nice cock? I typed.

Her response arrived without hesitation, which meant she’d been thinking about it.

It’s a really nice cock. Thick, heavy-looking, that fat flushed head with just a little precum shining at the tip… mmm. The way his hand grips it makes it look even bigger. I can tell it’s one of those ones that would stretch my mouth and make my jaw ache in the best way. It’s obviously the kind that would make me moan like a slut the second he pushed inside.

I read it twice. Then a third time.

M: Pushed inside your mouth?? Or?

J: Pushed inside the mashed potatoes. WHERE do you think, Hofferman?!?

M: I mean, you were just talking about blowjobs then you made a jump. Just wanted to make sure I had the image right.

J: You’re imagining me sucking cock?

I considered my next move carefully.

M: You’re the one who said that dick would make your jaw ache. Not me.

J: Fair enough.

A beat. The image still open in a separate window. I wasn’t proud of this.

M: So when you receive a pic like this, do you automatically feel turned on?

J: NO!

M: Noted.

J: When I receive these I just want to throw my phone across the room. Don’t get me wrong — I can appreciate a gorgeous cock. But I’m more contextual, you know? There has to be some type of relationship.

M: Gotcha.

J: So with the ones I DO ask for — that’s entirely different.

I stopped scrolling.

M: Wait. You’ve ASKED for a dick pic? You’ve actually ASKED for one?

J: Yeah! Now THOSE I don’t mind at all. It’s like a gift I can’t wait to see.

I sat with that. Jennie, anticipating. Jennie, wanting.

M: Are you often surprised?

J: Most of the time I can tell. There’s a swagger. A self-assuredness. But there HAS to be chemistry for me to ask. Otherwise it just belongs in a meat locker.

Chemistry. Self-assuredness. Swagger.

I took quiet inventory of myself. The results were not encouraging.

I’d really be taken aback if I received one, I typed.

Which was true. And also not the point I was actually making. Jennie, being Jennie, probably understood both.

Unfortunately we get a little desensitized to them, she said. It’s almost standard practice. Men are fucking pigs.

Present company excluded, of course, I typed.

She didn’t respond immediately.

I looked at the image again. That thick, heavy cock. The fat flushed head. The hand gripping it to demonstrate scale.

I thought about swagger. Self-assuredness. Chemistry.

I thought about gifts Jennie couldn’t wait to see.

I closed the image. Opened it again.

Men are fucking pigs, I agreed.

J: Want to see another one?

My cock stirred.

M: Sure!

The exclamation point doing all the work.

The second image was different. Slightly smaller than the first. Dare I say, just above average. Thick though. He held it at the base, hovering over jeans and work boots — this one taken outside, standing, top-down angle. A dollop of cream clinging to the tip.

J: Thoughts.

Simple. Declarative. No question mark. She wanted me to go first. This felt like a test and I wasn’t sure what I was being tested on.

I studied the image. I didn’t think dicks could look so different from each other. This one had a quality the first didn’t — something almost casual about it. Unperformative. The work boots helping somehow.

It has a nice curve, I typed. Playing it safe.

I appreciate the precum, she replied. It’s not huge, which I like. He’s got confidence. He’s bi so he’s no stranger to a dick pic.

Something loosened in me at ‘not huge, which I like.’

The precum looks yummy, I typed, and felt the sentence leave my fingers before I could file an objection. The size is nice. Uh oh. You just opened my floodgates. You’ve now sent me my second dick pic. I mean, you sent me the first one too. I mean…

I’m confused, she said.

Me too! 😂

J: Lol. Are you bi? You can tell me to fuck off if you don’t want to answer.

No — you can ask me anything. I meant it. I’m bi in my fantasies. I appreciate a nice looking cock. I dream about what I’d do with one. I’ve always wanted to lick clit while she gets fucked by a more endowed gentleman.

A pause.

M: Damn, this escalated quickly.

J: Mmmm. Nice. A shorter pause. Burning question: is your cock below average? Or is this just a kink?

Fireworks.

My cock was so hard it was making decisions for me.

I took a breath.

M: I’m on the small end of average. Just a touch below five inches.

Mmmmm. She took a moment with that. I’m so interested in this. Like — usually it’s the opposite. That’s really hot.

I stared at the screen. At both images still open. At her last message.

The man with the Walmart boxers confirming his size to nobody who asked.

The man with the work boots and the dollop of cream.

And me. Just a touch below five inches. Bi in my fantasies. Floodgates open.

M: Men are fucking pigs.

Present company, I thought, increasingly included.

J: Do you like your humiliation light and playful, or mean with hurt?

I loved how straightforward she was. No beating around the proverbial pube’s bush.

M: The meaner the better.

What the fuck am I doing.

A very long pause followed. Long enough that my cock softened. Long enough that I wondered if I’d scared her off entirely. I stared at the typing indicator.

Nothing.

Then another image appeared.

I want to be clinical about this. I want to say I assessed it with the same detached aesthetic framework I’d applied to the first two. Rule of thirds. Composition. Inviting atmosphere.

This one was thick. Stupid thick. The kind where fingers wouldn’t come close to wrapping all the way around. Heavy and veiny, maybe eight and a half inches, with a slight upward curve and a flared mushroom head that looked engineered for a specific purpose. Flushed dark pink at the tip. A shiny bead of precum at the slit that my brain did something embarrassing with immediately. He held it at the base with one hand and there was still a lot of cock left over. Full, heavy balls hanging low beneath it. The whole thing looked powerful. Purposeful. Like it already knew what it was going to do and had done it many times before.

I thought about swagger. Self-assuredness.

I thought about gifts Jennie couldn’t wait to see.

When I got that in my box, she typed. I bit my lip and immediately typed back: “Jesus fucking Christ… now THAT is a cock. I’d need both hands and still have trouble handling it.” Then I sent him a voice note moaning softly while I touched myself. Just to let him know.

I looked at my own hand. Then back at the screen.

M: May I confess something?

Of course, she coaxed.

M: I can’t help but touch myself right now. All of this is just too much.

A pause on her end. Shorter this time.

J: Mmm, Paul… fuck, I love knowing you’re stroking that cute little thing right now because of me.

My hand slowed.

J: You’re stroking your small cock while I tell you what I’d do with a much bigger, thicker one?

My hand did not stop.

J: God, you’re such a perfect little size slut.

Yes, I typed. One handed. I think I’m turning into a Size Queen. Jesus, that was bittersweet to admit.

If that fat, heavy cock from the pic was right here in front of me, she continued, I wouldn’t be gentle. I’d wrap both hands around it first, just to feel how thick it is — my fingers barely meeting. I’d stroke it slow and firm, watching that big head swell, that shiny drop of precum leaking out for me.

I was leaking too. Onto my hand. The comparison was not lost on me.

J: Then I’d lean down and drag my tongue all the way up the underside, swirling it around that fat head, tasting how much better it is than your little one. I’d look up at you the whole time with this wicked smile and say: “God, baby… see how much thicker he is? I need both hands just to stroke him. Your cute little dicklet fits in one hand with room to spare.”

Oh god.

I thought about the first pic. The thumb holding it straight. Confirming size to nobody who asked. I thought about the second — work boots, top-down angle, that casual confidence. I thought about this one. Eight and a half inches of purposeful, engineered inevitability.

Then I thought about just a touch below five.

My hand kept moving.

Then I’d open my mouth and take as much of it as I could — which is still a lot, Jennie continued. I’d moan loud and messy around it, bobbing my head, letting my lips stretch wide while I gag a little. Every time I pull off I’d stroke it fast with both hands and tease you: “Mmm… I can feel it hitting the back of my throat already. I bet your little one wouldn’t even reach halfway. You’d just sit there and watch me choke on a real cock like a good boy, wouldn’t you?”

Yes, I typed. One word. One handed. And completely true.

J: I’d keep sucking it, getting it nice and wet, then I’d turn around, pull the satin to the side, and rub that thick head against my pussy. A beat. “Watch this, cutie. Watch how a real cock opens me up…”

My breathing had changed. I was aware of this.

J: I’d push back slowly, moaning loud as it stretches me, inch after thick inch, until I’m full in a way your little cock would never make me feel. Then I’d start riding it — deep, greedy bounces — while I look back at you and laugh breathlessly: “Fuck… this is what I need, Paul. Not your adorable little dick. This. God, I’m going to cum so much harder on this…”

J: All while you’re desperately stroking your tiny cock, leaking everywhere, knowing you’d never make me feel that full.

I was desperately stroking. I was leaking everywhere. The accuracy was humiliating. The humiliation was the point.

J: So tell me, baby… how hard are you stroking right now? Are you about to cum all over your hand thinking about me riding a much bigger cock while you watch like the pathetic little cuck you are? Be honest. I want every filthy detail.

I looked at the three images. The Walmart boxers. The work boots. The stupid thick monster with its purposeful head.

I looked at my hand.

I’m typing one handed 😉 Jesus, Jennie. I’m so close. Fuck. You’re incredible.

After a few beats, literally…

I came, I typed, when I could type again. You made me cum.

A moment passed. The particular silence after.

Mmm, she replied. Good boy.

I sat with that. With the three images still open. With the specific strangeness of what had just happened.

She hadn’t sexted me, exactly. There was no back and forth, no mutual fantasy constructed between us. She’d sexted at dick pics — at men who’d sent them without asking, without context, without earning the right — and I’d been pulled along in the current of it. Her desire, her disgust, her appetite. Her authority over all three. I’d been a witness to her power rather than the object of it.

And somehow that had been the most erotic thing I’d ever experienced.

Was that your favorite? I asked. The last one?

Mmm, she said again. Which was not an answer.

Jennie.

I have to go, she said. Thank you for this. Truly.

Thank you, I typed back. For all of it.

Sweet dreams, Paul.

You too.

I closed the images one by one. The Walmart boxers. The work boots and the dollop of cream. The stupid thick monster that had apparently ruined me.

I thought about swagger. Self-assuredness. Chemistry.

I thought about gifts Jennie couldn’t wait to see…

…and how she never asked for my dick pic.

And a very special thanks goes to “Jennie” 😘 - Paul

📚 Medium | 🦋 BlueSky | 📚Amazon | 💬 X (under_the_suit

My phone dinged. “You’d better make it home quickly,” his text read. “I expected you there. Since you didn’t answer, I left your surprise at the door.”

I wasn’t home. Wasn’t expecting him either. We had a date lined up for later that afternoon. I was hanging out with Hannah, drinking iced coffee at the student union cafe.

“Regrettably, I am unable to see you this afternoon.” Coming from a professor, of course his texts arrive in complete sentences. “I’m called away unexpectedly to take a faculty candidate to dinner.”

“But you promised,” I replied. Frowning emoji.

“I know, Natalie. I’ll make it up to you later this week.”

Saddened. Frustrated. I’d had a bizarre day in class and wanted to decompress with wine and shop-talk — after our rollicking sex session, of course.

“Get to your apartment. I don’t think you’ll want the neighbors to see your surprise. Or maybe you do…”

Fuck. What did you do.

“A surprise. Text me when you’ve completed the first task.”

“Sorry, Hannah, I have to get back to the apartment.” Purely frazzled. Gathering my things.

“Whoa, Nat, is everything okay?” Her eyes widened.

“Yeah, everything’s cool. I just need to — run. I realized I’m late for a meeting.”

“Oh, seeing our mysterious Professor again?”

I instantly blushed. “No. Nothing like that. I just—”

“Nah, I get it. I’d bounce too for that hottie. I’ll see you after class tomorrow?”

“Same place, same time.” Couldn’t get out the door fast enough.

As I traversed the Campus Commons, the ground felt as if it was continually slipping away. What the hell did he leave for me? My phone dinged. An image of a package. Yep, that’s my doorstep.

Semi-transparent shopping bag. Hot-pink and black tissue paper. Some items gift wrapped. And one very obvious, very expensive-looking sex toy.

Fuck. If any of my neighbors see this.

What if Jeremy drops by.

Terrified. Mortified. Yet, delightfully anxious. Adrenaline and dread doing laps.

I had tremendous difficulty getting the key out to unlock my bike.

Fifteen minutes ahead of me. On a good day. My mind raced: what devilish manipulation do you have in store for me today, dear Professor? Part angry, part forgiving. Thankfully, navigating college town traffic was simple. Everything gridlocked at this time of day.

I made it up to the apartment in record time. Could see the gift-bag from the sidewalk. Dashed to the door. Dropped my keys fumbling with the lock.

As I bent to retrieve them, I couldn’t help but notice the vibrating device broadcasting like a perverted beacon. Hey neighbor. I’m a masturbator.

The other items were discreet. Delicately wrapped. Embarrassed, excited. I don’t know how I managed to open my door. Kicked off my shoes. Propped the bike against the wall. Slammed the door closed with my foot. Flung my work bag on the chair. Set his mystery gift-bag on the coffee table.

Wanted wine. The presents tantalized me. Too impatient.

Started prying through the bag. Hot-pink and black tissue paper. The wrapping. All of it carrying that cherry flavored funk — the incense from the lingerie boutique, Swat!, on South End.

A bundle of envelopes tied with twine. Several boxes beneath. The Lelo toy unwrapped for a reason — none other than to embarrass me — telegraphing exactly where these trinkets came from.

Sticky note on the packet: “Open me first.” The Professor’s slinging script.

I opened the envelope.

“I went shopping for you today. Regrettably, I’m called away at the last minute. Since I want to honor our engagement, I figured we’d still have a little fun.

“What follows is a series of instructions, the steps demarcated on each envelope. Don’t open the next one until you’ve performed the task required. Ensure you follow the order. I will also check in to see how you are progressing.”

My phone dinged. “I assume you arrived home.” What timing. Is he spying on me? Masterful at building tension and anxiety.

“What were you thinking leaving that on my doorstep? Anyone could’ve seen that!”

“It’s that bit of exhibitionism you enjoy so much. In an indirect way.”

“I’m pissed at you for putting me in this position, but I can’t wait to see what’s next.”

“I know you all too well.”

God. Soul-piercing truth. I’d never met anyone like him. He fulfills this deep-seated, filthy, sexual ache. I’d never let myself show this side to anyone — he just sees it. Sees the wants, the desires, the lusts I don’t say out loud. Maybe because he’s older. Maybe because this is an arrangement, nothing more. We cannot be together — he has his commitments and I have grad school. Hell, that’s its own mistress.

“Have you opened any of the envelopes?”

“Just the first one.”

“Good. Take the gifts back to your bedroom. Then open the next note.”

“Um, I haven’t finished with the first card yet. So, I’m following its directives, just as you’ve instructed, Sir.” He goes crazy with lust when I’m bratty.

“Then I await your response once you’re prompted.”

Cold. Stern. Okay.

I put my phone down and turned the card over: “Take these gift items back to your bedroom. Once settled, open envelope #2.”

Of course it did.

Gathered everything and bolted. Hoped my roommate wasn’t home. Her door was open. Whew.

Bag on the bed. Envelope #2. Tore it open with shaking hands.

“Strip.”

Simple. Stark.

Blouse off. Bra unhooked. Tights and panties peeled down my legs.

What’s next. What’s next.

Envelope #3: “You’ll find these packages ordered alphabetically. Open package A now.”

Rummaged. Panicked. Package A shifted to the side of the bag. Things got disheveled — like my life — getting into the bedroom. Black wrapping. Hot-pink ribbon. “A” marked in silver script.

Tore at the paper. Agent Provocateur box. Rose-scented tissue parting to reveal a black silk quarter-cup bra. Matching thong. Garters. Thigh-highs nested underneath.

Somewhat predictable, Professor.

Sticky note: “Put these on. Then open #4.”

I pulled on the silk stockings. Goddamn. I’d never felt anything like this against my legs. Second thoughts — should I have shaved? Slipped into the rest of the ensemble. Stepped in front of the full-length mirror.

Hot. I looked hot. Quarter-cup bra, all lift and suggestion. What woman wears this around the office with her nips piercing her blouse? Nobody. This thing was pure aesthetics. Pure intent.

Grabbed my phone. Took a selfie. Took a few more. You know, for good measure.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Yeah, this one. Swoosh.

“I regret to inform you that you’re NOT following directions.”

Wait.

He’s not going to say how fucking amazing I look? How he’d devour me if he were here?

“Consider this a warning. If you cannot simply follow the plan laid out before you, I’m afraid I’ll call the whole ordeal off.”

“I just thought I’d send you a sexy selfie. Jeez!”

Skin flushed. Fingers trembling. I hated to admit that.

“If I assess this situation correctly, I hazard a guess that you haven’t opened envelope #4, have you.”

Is he spying on me?

“No, I haven’t.”

“No… what?”

“Right. No, Sir. I haven’t.”

Ashamed. Turned on. Both climbing.

“Don’t contact me again unless instructed to do so.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Strange — it felt like he was in the room. He was miles away getting ready to take an interviewee out for drinks. And somehow completely, infuriatingly present.

Envelope #4: “Open package B and C. I think you’ll know what to do.”

B was cylindrical. Perfume or lube. Paper off — lube. Yes. I’d rather have that than perfume any day.

Package C, small box. No idea. Past the paper, inside the box — a small purple velvet pouch. Inside this, a silver, blue-bejeweled butt plug.

Oh, you naughty Professor.

Held the plug in my mouth to warm it up while I opened the lube. Pulled my thong to the side. Teased my ass with lubed fingers. I love the sensation of having my hole played with. Slowly inserted the plug. Relished that swelling sensation as it entered me. That fullness once my ass took it in.

Envelope #5: “Admire yourself in front of the mirror. Behold how amazing and sexy you are. Think of the power you wield over other men. Especially me.

“Situate yourself on the floor in front of the mirror. Lean back against the bed frame. Recall our time in DC. Relive the details of that scene. How I took you in the hotel room. At the window. Tease yourself until aching. Watch your reflection. See how your body responds. Consider this: how would I manipulate you?

“Bring yourself to the brink. You are not allowed to orgasm. Once you’re at this stage, open #6.”

Slowly. Mindless. Totally submissive.

I slid down to the floor. Could feel the fullness of the plug, so I rocked my hips against its gravity. Gazed down at my breasts. Pinched a nipple, hard — just like he would. Hand teasing my clit. Panties already soaked. Fingers tracing my slit, staying above the silk, sliding easily between my lips. Pressure upward. Sparks when I hit my clit.

Tried to keep a slow pace. Couldn’t.

He already had me aching.

Brink of quivering legs — and then I remembered.

Edge.

Caught a glimpse in the mirror. Fuck. Just wanted to cum. But he knew. He always knows. I appreciate a good teasing session more than I’d ever admit out loud.

Furious fingers found envelope #6.

Envelope #6: “Unwrap box D. Inside, you’ll find further instruction.”

A selfie-stick. Sticky note: “Send me a pic from my favorite angle.”

Easy. Slipped my phone into the holder. Snapped a few shots from my breasts, looking down my torso. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Swoosh.

“Try again.”

Hmmm. Opposite end then. A few marvelous crotch shots. Swoosh.

“Try harder.”

Fine. All fours. Ass up. Jewel visible under the thong cleaving my ass. Swoosh.

“Didn’t I teach you anything about composition?”

Ouch.

My phone dinged again. “Just move on to the next step.”

Package 7 — um, wow.

Black gift-wrap. Under it, a modestly large dildo with a suction-cup mount. The note: “Attach to the mirror. Kneel and suck.”

I could not help but watch myself. Surreal. Already feeling outside my body. Who is this person. I stared into the lust-crazed eyes that were my own. Eyes I somehow still knew.

Imagined this phallus was him. Administered strokes as I took him in my mouth. Watched my own hands.

The scene in DC replayed. Hotel window. This position. Blowing him. Playing with my cunt. Wondering if anyone witnessed us from the room in the clouds.

Brought myself to the brink. Remembered our rule.

Anxious. Frustrated. One envelope. One gift left.

Envelope #8: “You mentioned wanting to ‘feel full.’ Here’s your chance to enact that fantasy. Send me an image of what you’d do if all things were possible.”

Couldn’t open that vibe fast enough. Sleek. Black. Silicone smooth with an engine that purred. I knew this would be intense. Wasn’t sure I could handle direct contact even on its lowest setting.

My pussy was oh, so thirsty.

Returned to the mirror. Dildo back in my mouth. Tongue swirling over the cock head. Vibe positioned right above my throbbing clit.

Fuck.

Instantly trembling. Moving against my better instincts, I slid the toy to my clit. Boom. Pulled my panties aside. Teased my slit up and down, grinding against the shaft, full contact.

He wanted a picture. I managed to capture something tasteful, erotic, accidental. Swoosh. Didn’t give a fuck about composition. Tossed the selfie-stick aside.

Inserted the vibe into my aching cunt. Its girth, its oscillations — tremors through my whole body. One rolling orgasm after another. I couldn’t conjure a thought. Could only attempt to exhaust my yearning.

These were instruments, not people. Still a detachment. The orgasm intense but hollow at its center. I wanted him. Not the silicone.

Did he plant this wanting in me, or was it always mine? I don’t know. I think too much.

Who cares.

I think I heard my boyfriend’s muffled voice from the other side of the locked bedroom door.

I’m going to tear the skin from his bones.

Thanks for reading this revamped edit!

The original version was published in MyErotica.com July, 2020.

His car pulls into the driveway. I peep through the blinds. She’s bent over the driver’s door of the convertible, sharing a long kiss goodbye. The hem of her sundress reveals her cheeky ass and panties. He takes a final grab.

I watch longer than I should. There’s something about seeing her give herself to that kiss… unhurried, unguarded, that hollows me out and fills me up at the same time. I don’t have a word for it. I’m not sure I need one.

My heart pounds.

My cock throbs.

She bounds into our bedroom. Long auburn locks bouncing off sun-kissed shoulders. Lipstick smudged. Dark eyes still dreamy. Sweat glistening on her heaving breasts. A yellow flowered sundress clinging to her body. Nipples saying hello.

I can smell him on her. That heady mix of cologne and cum.

She looks down at my modest package and tells me to strip and stroke.

Milliseconds and I’m entirely naked, stroking between two fingers and thumb. She’s got that sinful smile. I know that look. The hotwife-tease takes control.

We’re locked in a lustful gaze. She giggles, watching my fingers slide across my shaft. She raises the sundress, revealing red satin panties. Slips fingertips through wet folds. The sounds of sloppy labia sucking on digits.

She brings cum-coated fingertips inches from my mouth. I involuntarily open, dripping drool.

The scent of their sex intoxicates me. She’s still in that afterglow. I want to taste them more than anything.

A shove, a plummet, and I stare at the ceiling. The bed rocks as she straddles me. Her dripping, swollen cunt hovers over my face. Crotchless panties soaked in cum. Satin saturated with white cream plastered against her puffy pussy.

She pinches and pulls at nipples, runs hands down her sides, across her thighs, peels the panties apart. Swollen. Glistening. Still gaping. Still leaking.

She quickly maneuvers above my cock. Vic’s cum plops upon the head of my meager hard-on. I’m so erect it aches. Meghan spits on my hand and now I’m using their fluids as lube. In moments it’s a frothy, thick mess coating my vice-gripped shaft.

She crawls back up my chest. Damp breasts brush against my face. Those glistening half-moons. Nip to my lip, just to tease. She continues to climb and settles her sopping pussy mere millimeters from my hungry whore of a mouth.

She wants to play a game. Wants to see how long I can last. I don’t know what I agreed to. I just want her to fuck my face into oblivion. I want to drown in their cum.

That’s all that matters.

Meghan replays her afternoon with Vic as I bury my tongue as far as I can into her cavernous cunt, craving their cream. I suck. I pull her swollen labia between my lips. She moans and buckles against me. My face swathed in their sex. My lips glisten nearly as much as hers. I taste their alkaline dream.

As she details his massive cock pounding the core of her being, I feel pre-cum seeping into my grasp. That slow release building. I don’t want to cum yet. I can’t. I want to devour every last drop of her. I want her shivering, quaking.

She grinds hard against my nose, mouth, chin. Frenetic. Recalling the plunging depths of Vic’s massive manhood. She’d never felt so full. His cock so much bigger than my own.

I sit with that for a moment, even now, even like this. The truth of it. The ache of it. The fact that I’m stroking myself with another man’s cum because my wife needed something I couldn’t give her — and I am so goddamn grateful she found it.

These words send me twitching against my strokes. My inadequacies fueling my lust.

I suck and trap her clit between my lips and teeth. Rapid tongue lashing.

She quivers.

Meghan recalls Vic’s orgasm. How she rode that monster in the passenger seat. How his perfect cock gave her multiple orgasms she’d never experienced before.

As she shakes against my mouth, I erupt. Shoot my load all over my chest, catching the back of her sundress. My orgasm is an out-of-body experience. My face melts into the core of her being. I elevate.

When I eventually come to, she’s stroking my hair.

This is what I am to her. Not what Vic is — something else entirely. The one she comes home to. The one she tells everything. The one whose face she rides while she’s still full of someone else. I used to think that made me less. I know now it makes me hers.

We’re secure. Safe in arms.

She’ll see him again and I’ll get to hear all about it.

I’m sure I’ll get Vic’s version too, at our next Run Club.

Let’s hope I can keep up.

Meghan says:

“Since May is masturbation month, the cage comes off. You can touch, stroke, and pull that little cock as often as you like, but you can’t touch me; you can’t fuck me.

It’s called masturbation month for a reason.

While you think you’ll get release, I’m going to give you torture and tease. You’re going to want my pussy more than life itself, but for our marriage, masturbation month is about pussy denial.

You’re the only one touching that worm. How you spend your strokes, that’s your call.

So. Get naked, hubby. I can see that tiny tent you’re pitching. C’mere, stand in front of me and drop trou.

Someone’s excited.

Take two fingers and start stroking that pathetic cock. That’s it. Look into my eyes. Feels good to touch yourself, doesn’t it.

Open your mouth. Keep it open. Smell my sweet, succulent cunt on these fingers. You want a taste? Look at you drool. No. No. No. You only get the scent.

Bend towards me. Push your tongue forward. Let’s see ropes of saliva pool in your hand. Slide your cocklett through your slick fingers. Push those hips. C’mon. Feels so good, doesn’t it? Finally able to touch yourself.

Wanna hear about my date?

Will hearing about Vic’s veiny cock make yours grow a little more? Can it get any bigger? Hmmm. Let’s see.

Oh, I didn’t shove you that hard. On your back. Just the way I want you.

You know what my favorite season is? Sundress season. I wore this little number this afternoon. No bra. Vic loves to feel me up through the fabric. Why take it off; he just slips his hands under the hem. Easy access. Especially when I wear crotchless panties.

Stay there while I straddle your face. I wear the sundress for Vic, but I wear these silky, slutty, slit-split panties for you, babe. I’m still dripping from my outing with him. God, he pumped me full of cum.

Here. Let me spread my lips for you. See his load? Give it a minute.

Actually… I have a better idea.

Let me scoot down. I’ll hover my sopping pussy over your pathetic penis.

There’s a dollop. Bullseye. Right on your cockhead. Use Vic’s cum as lube. Keep stroking. That’s it. Your whole hand now.

Here’s a little more of him. Frothy. God, I almost want to slurp you up. To taste my lover off your dicklett. Here, take my spit too. Let’s get you nice and sloppy. Just like my pussy.

Stroke for me. Grip it tight. You know my stretched cunt couldn’t feel like that vice grip of yours.

See, that’s the thing, with Vic it’s a matter of trying to fit him in. With you it’s a matter of trying to keep you from slipping out.

Now. Here’s our little bet. I sit on your face. I grind on you, chin to nose. I’ll get you glazed like a donut… BUT if you cum, you’re back in chastity for the rest of May. Hitachi on the cage and toys in your ass. That’s it.

You think you can last?

I don’t think you can. You just want my swollen, jizz-filled cunt on your mouth.

Nod if you agree.

...Yeah. I knew you would.

Mmmmnnn, yes puppy, fuck! Suck all of Vic’s cum outta me. That’s a good sub hubby! Goddamn, I may not love you for your dick, but I love your tongue.

Still pulling on that cock? You’d better be. That’s cheating if you’re not.

So. While you’re down there, let me tell you how your slutty hotwife arrived home with a cunt full of cum.

We pulled off the parkway to this secluded spot near the Cascades. Vic parked, lifted me, climbed into the passenger seat. Hands on my hips. Lowered my pussy onto his massive shaft.

I was so fucking wet he eased right in. Took his time. For me it felt like an eternity. I wanted all of him so bad.

I’d never felt so full. My labia stretching, grasping him, turning inside as I slid down. My core could feel him.

I had an immediate orgasm. There in the sunlight. Being taken in the passenger seat of his convertible. Then I went crazed. Grinding against this mass that took my whole being. Shuddering. Telling him to fuck me hard.

I knew that was a mistake. I didn’t care.

He held my hips and started impaling me faster. I could hear his balls slapping the leather seats. One big hand clutched my breast — pinched my nipple, pulled it — sent me over the edge.

I felt his cock convulse. The swelling. The pulsing. The flood.

We were so sticky afterwards.

Nnnnnggg… just thinking about it. The muscle memory of his cock. I’m cumming again.

Fuck! Yes hubby! That’s it! Get in there!

Still stroking? You’d better be.

Nnng, okay. I’ll have sympathy on you this time. You gave me good head. My sore pussy thanks you.

You know what kills me a little? Watching you stroke that tiny cock. Knowing you’ll never fill me the way Vic does. Knowing you know it too, and you’re still stroking.

That’s the hottest fucking thing about you.

C’mere. Let me play with your hair.”

A sincere thank you to the magnificent for allowing me to write about her character and her image/scenario. I hope my hubris doesn’t disappoint. 🖤-her panty-fanboy-Paul

P.S. You can find links to the excellent erotica that I allude to in the footnotes.

I heard moans.

I heard a muffled voice.

Severely muffled.

Expressive.

Restrained.

I heard sobs.

I think they were sobs.

The unmistakable crack of leather straps across skin.

That sounded fun.

I heard my own words.

My prose being recited aloud: “Meghan guided him past a series of close-ups: her parted lips; a man’s face lost between her legs. Each image rendered with studied care, explicit enough to linger, refined enough to be admired.”1

My writing being wielded as an instrument.

I didn’t think my erotica was bad enough to torture someone.

This dungeon had a different syntax than the one I knew. I was on all fours wearing pink satin panties in a holding pen. A small, padded cell with bars. Looked like an upscale crate for a Leonberger. It also had wheels, I’d just discovered as someone maneuvered me. Somewhere ahead, my words were still being read. Whoever was listening hadn’t stopped.

Because she couldn’t.

The crate swirled a 180 to confront me with a most contorted sight. A desirous blond writhing in bondage. Severe bondage. I’d never seen such restraints on supple appendages. Her arms anchored behind her. She sat in an executive’s chair. One that looked remarkably similar to what resides in my campus office. Her legs splayed nearly to the extreme. Her stomach shuddered with sobs. Her beautiful face mapped by rivulets of mascara. A thick stream of drool dripped from behind her black ball gag.

Seeing her like that made me crave a rotisserie chicken. Both bound and splayed.

Succulent juices.

I could see a massive damp, dark wet spot in her panties. The same style of panties that I had to put on. We wore matching lingerie.

That’s cute.

The Mistress towered beside her. She wore black latex revealing approximately the square footage of a business card’s worth of exposed skin. Intentional. An architectural ache of flesh at the top of her thighs. The top of her boots.

She read my erotica from a laptop positioned directly in front of our dark damsel of debauchery. The way my words sounded when evoked from her throat placed weight upon my chest. My sentences sounded different in her mouth. Improved. Like she’d always owned them.

She owned the entire scene, and the scene shocked me. Even scared me a little. I felt my cock whimper in its cage.

A cage inside a cage.

A play within a play.

The Mistress shifted stories, delivering the next explicit anecdote about bratty Brad getting pegged: “…the hard rubber balls of the dildo are smacking against his, and feeling like he’s being kicked with each forward thrust. He is beside himself with the pain and feelings… feelings he never expected to be feeling…”2

I felt some things I never expected either, Brad. Seemed this Mistress was using my own likes against me. What kind of psychological mind fuck was this?

I recalled beating off to that story. It was one of my favorites from Zatanna Dark. Then it clicked in the most perverse way. The blond? That’s Zatanna??? The Zatanna Dark!!

Fuck.

This is evil genius shit. Deus ex machina if the machine was a butt plug with a Bluetooth connection.

Someone opened the crate. Pulled my leash. Wait, when did I get leashed? I really must’ve been into this Mistress’s erotic recital.

Zatanna? I mouthed it across the distance between us. We’d made eye contact. She gave a slight nod. Eyes wide.

I suddenly remembered to keep my head lowered as the attendant pulled my lead.

Taut and taught.

I crawled across the dungeon floor. Kneeled at the base of the executive chair.

As the Mistress circled us slowly, crop striking her palm, I stared intensely at the chair. Noticing the small details. The faint scratches on its armrest. The wear of the seat. I’d say it even carried my scent, but honestly, all I could smell was Zatanna’s exquisite excitement. Nevertheless, I decided this was my office chair. It had to be. Puzzling how the hell it got here, in her dungeon.

I didn’t recall that on the intake form.

I just recalled impact play, bondage, humiliation, extreme tease and denial. My usual menu of depravity, as I signed before stepping into the changing room to get caged, plugged, and pantied.

“Slut Z,” the Mistress addressed, “I thought we’d have the day to ourselves. You bound helpless and horny while we read these erotic entries from the Smut Stroll.3 But then…” Her boots stopped at the top of my downward gaze. “…we have a new sub willing to serve all of our perverse needs.”

One boot knocked my knee to take a wider stance.

“Slut Z, I’d like you to meet Paul. We’ll call him Slut P. He’s our new pet.” She yanked my leash and tipped my chin up with her crop.

Zatanna Dark? The real Zatanna Dark! Writhing in bondage right in front of me. I still couldn’t believe it. I’m fanboying. Full ahegao. Embarrassing. My cage leaked a little.

“Tell me, Sissy Slut P, what does it feel like being face to crotch with the infamous Zatanna Dark?” She pressed her knee in my back, edging me closer to the chair.

I was dumbfounded. Starry-eyed and pussy struck. Totally at a loss for words. They say you should never eat out your idols. Or something like that. I only muttered some monosyllabic affirmative in desperation to please.

“Well, Slut Z, looks like the cat’s got the tongue of your poor little panty boy.” She laughed. “Let’s get this cruelty started.” She moved to the laptop. “Let’s go with an audible entry.” She pulled up an erotic poem. A British woman’s near whisper read her stanza followed by a deep groan of man reading his part.4 These bawdy bards took their time delivering their fervid poetry. It was beautiful juxtaposition to this scene of carnal knowledge.

The Mistress positioned my face just mere millimeters from Zatanna’s soaked pussy. I marveled at the pink satin in front of me. Difficult to discern what parts of the fabric were still dry. Up toward the cinched waistband yielded the original shade. Everything else was damp dark elixir of Zatanna.

Her scent sent me swooning. I could sense that her perfume was expensive. What was underneath it wasn’t. The combination was devastating.

The cage bit into my swell. My inner masochist was thriving.

Beautiful poetry. Obscene situation.

What made it even more salacious was Zatanna’s writhing hips. She bumped her clit right against my nose with a lewd bop that left her dew clinging to my skin.

“No. No. NO! Slut Z!” The Mistress’s correction was immediate with a few sharp swacks delivered across Zatanna’s supple belly. Marking her in a shade of pink that nearly matched our lingerie. “NO touching! You filthy little whore! I saw what you did. Now poor Sissy Slut P has a dollop of your cunt cream on his nose. Sissy Slut P hasn’t earned the right to taste your exquisite slit Slut Z. We must make him work for it.”

She lowered the crop between us like a cautionary tale. Grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, just to give enough space to deliver more whacks to Zatanna. This time landing right on her clit.

Oh the moans that escaped her gagged mouth.

I’ll remember these moans for decades.

Zatanna jolted. My trapped cock jumped.

Mistress’s crop gave me a few impolite slaps on the cheek.

“Did you enjoy that little pussy bump to your face?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“She smells divine, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The crop snaked across Zatanna’s skin. Moved through the curves of her breasts. Down her stomach. Mistress wielded this instrument as an additional appendage. The crop delved into the waistband of Zatanna’s soaked panties. I could see the shadowy satin protrusion pressed against her clit.

“Hold still Slut. Don’t even think of grinding those whore hips of yours.”

The desperation in Zatanna’s eyes fractured my soul. All her resolve was in her stare. I could literally see her ascension into sub-space.

Lift off in T-minus…

Mistress kept the crop still. Right there. Right at the core of her arousal.

Breathe through it.

I tried ESP. Extra Sensory Projection. But what we had was Extra Sloppy Pussy. I wanted to help.

I think I was just mentally reciting that for me.

The crop slowly, and I mean painstakingly millimeter by agonizing millimeter, slid up and out of her panties.

The Mistress held the crop to my face. Glistening. Anointed with Zatanna’s ambrosia grool.

“Where should the next strike land, Sissy Slut P?” She gripped my cheeks. All I could do was stare at the sheer white slime shining on black leather. “Do you want more of her scent across that cute nose of yours? Or would you rather have a taste? A taste of someone you’ll never have.”

My mouth opened all on its own. I had no control anymore. My tongue came out. Drool dripped onto her boot.

“Nuh, uh, uh…” Mistress scolded. “You dirtied my boots.” She pushed my head down. “Clean it up!”

I slurped my spit from her latex.

She pulled my hair to put me back in my upright kneeling position. Squeezed my cheeks again. This time harder. Forced my tongue out; three quick strikes landed on it. The final blow stayed. Swirled. Turned. Slid to the back of my throat, an involuntary gag followed.

“That’s it. Taste your muse.” She closed my mouth around the crop. I savored what I could before she slid the crop from my wanting mouth.

“Now… where were we?” Her grip guided my head back to Zatanna’s soaked panties. “Remember, NO touching!”

By this point, that lovely poetry reading was ancient history. So, Mistress queued up another audio. This time it was a soft, slightly husky American woman’s voice. A voice that made me feel something.5 A soft ache in my chest. Uninvited.

This ache was the wrong shape for this room. This wasn’t supposed to feel like anything other than filthy. Nobody warned me about this part.

But that tenderness was short lived. An internal shock to the system: the Bluetooth butt plug broke both my heart and my concentration with vibrations that made my eyes cross like God Himself had hit skip… the Deus had returned. Still ex. Still machina. Still a butt plug.

Once my body became accustomed to these intrusive vibrations, I heard the audible situation in my ass. Damn, that’s a REALLY LOUD plug. Then I noticed the same internal tremors coming from a different body. Zatanna’s.

Wait… we have syncopated devices? As if the matching lingerie wasn’t enough. Wow, this Mistress ran a tight dungeon. And she had range. Definitely range.

The sudden jolts our bodies experienced nearly led to another crotch collision to my face. But air traffic control knew what she was doing.

This was remarkably unfair. And I loved every second of it. The vibes settled to a slow thudding tremble. The American whisperer read her filthy prose from the laptop speakers.

I wanted nothing more than to bury my face into the soaked core of one of my erotica heroes. I wanted to prove my fanboy devotion by tongue worshipping every sloppy crevice from clit to starfish. More and more the temptation swelled inside me. That same devastating scent pulling me in deeper. The seductive writhe of her hips. The way her labia devoured the sodden satin into her cleft. I could discern the outline of her obscene anatomy. A ravenous want surged. The risk. The reward.

I would sell my soul for a sampling of this bound goddess. The want became too much.

Mistress could sense it, too.

Did Zatanna sense my extreme desire? Or was she too enraptured with the erotica and the vibes between us.

No, not those type of vibes. Literal vibes.

I prayed that she would just use my face. I’d give her everything I had, which at this moment wasn’t much.

“Mmmm. There it is.” Mistress circled us. “It’s so delicious to see you two struggle.”

She grabbed my hair, edged me even closer to Zatanna’s promised land. Zatanna did her best not to arc her hips too much. A breadth of molecules between us. Nothing more.

“You’re breaking, Sissy Slut P. Look at you. Pathetically humping the air. Your panties are almost as wet as Slut Z’s.” She let out a diabolical laugh. “Aww, does that cage ache for contact? You’re mirroring your muse. It’s cute. Same roll of the hips. Same buzzing in your backdoor.”

“I tell you what, little pet.” She craned my head to face her. “Let’s amp it up a little!”

She released her grip, paced backward, to kick a footstool to the base of my office chair.

“Here. Climb on this and kneel.”

I did as I was told. My pink, panty-clad-cage perfectly aligned with her pink, panty-clad-clit.

“I want to watch you two hump each other. Grind those satin panties to smithereens. I want the two of you so messy only God can sort your juices from hers.”

She pushed my ass into Zatanna.

I was face to face with my idol. Writer of filthy erotic prose. I’d spent many an evening masturbating to her deviant scenes. I don’t know how many of her stories had made me cum.

My satin covered cage collided with her satin swollen bud.

“See, there’s still no touching,” our Mistress praised. “Just mere layers of fabric and plastic separating the two of you.”

Zatanna’s eyes locked with mine. I didn’t feel worthy, but I couldn’t look away.

“Go ahead,” Mistress continued, “grind to your little hearts’ content. Let’s see what you’ve got Sissy Slut P. Give it to her. Hump Slut Z like the little adorable pup that you are.”

A few swacks to my ass landed Mistress’s exclamation point home. I lurched, then just lost it. Grinding my cage against this bound blond goddess felt like a defilement of the divine.

I couldn’t tell if I was leaking more or if her wetness seeped into my satin, but the slick that slid across my balls was extraordinary. The pressure of her mound against my cage, the ache addressed, the tension compressed.

I had to break eye contact. This was evolving into an intensity for which I wasn’t prepared. I looked at her ball gag. The moans that escaped thrilled me past reason. I was evoking pleasure from my muse. I wanted to kiss her so deep. I wanted to swap spit. I wanted to suck her string of saliva.

The vibe kicked in again.

This was so unfair.

Shudders rippled across the two of us. I pressed harder. Faster. I felt the internal orgasm begin to bloom deep inside from the plug hitting my p-spot.

Mistress knew it, too.

“Stop!” Her crop slid between us. Mistress pulled me from my writhing muse. Her crop struck pendulum blows between Zatanna’s aching clit and my swollen, trapped balls.

Shuddering, we leaked in unison. My cum pooled my panties. Imbalanced. Fooled. Thrilled. Empty. Deprived.

Spent.

Ruined.

“Both of you have made quite the mess.” Mistress cooed. “Paul, take your panties off.”

It was the first time she’d used my name since our brief introduction. It shocked me back to reality with slight pangs of shame. Not in a bad way.

I carefully tried to regain my balance as I eased off the step stool. I peeled the panties from my cage. A pearly puddle of cum stared back at me.

Meanwhile, Mistress took a large pair of shears and clipped Zatanna’s g-strings. She yanked her panties out from under her like a parlor trick.

Her boots clicked with menace as she approached me.

“Open.” She gagged me with both pairs. My muse’s essence and my own ruin, indistinguishable.

She helped me to sit on top of the crate that had once wheeled me into this erotic misadventure.

“Sit here a bit. Savor the taste. Settle and come down from sub space.”

Reentering atmosphere in 3, 2, 1…

Mistress made her way back to Zatanna. The click of her heels sounded softer this time. She plucked the ball gag from Z’s mouth. Loosened the restraints.

I just stared in complete awe.

Zatanna relaxed in my office chair.

“We’ll return the chair to your campus office tomorrow morning.” Mistress patted Z on her thigh. “Your muse’s scent as a little souvenir. Think of that when you’re grading papers or writing your next erotica, Professor.”

I knew it! But could only nod.

“Oh, you may remove your panty gags.” She softly instructed. “Those, too, are a gift for you to keep.”

I pulled them reluctantly from my mouth. I honestly relished the taste of her. The absence hit as hard as knowing I’d never taste her again.

“Thank you, Mistress. Thank you, Zatanna. Your work is so exciting to read. You’ve moved me several times.”

Wait, was that TMI? Oh well. Already out of the bag.

“Thank you, Paul.” Zatanna’s sultry voice spanked my soul.

It was simple. That was all I needed.

As an attendant wheeled me away back to the changing room, Mistress gave my ass two intense buzzes for good measure.

“Keep up the good work, writer boy.”

📚 Medium | 🦋 BlueSky | 📚Amazon | 💬 X (under_the_suit

Hey there! I’m Paul and I’m glad you’re here.

First, I want to offer my sincere gratitude to Rosalie Fox | Eroticist, and Ella Light for putting this virtual gallery crawl together. And you can peruse the other fabulous writers and artists here.

This is Kinky Ink. The erotica is psychological, the art is unapologetic, and the man in the suit is wearing more than you’d expect and less than you’d guess. Pull up a chair. Pour something.

The work here takes desire seriously: as metaphor, as tension, as craft. It’s explicit because it earns it, literary because it can’t help it, and a little snarky because that’s just how we are. You’re not here by accident. Enjoy it.

Everything I post is free. I also do commission work in both art and writing. So if you’re interested, please let me know.

For the Smut Stroll, here’s a sampling of everything you’ll find at Kinky Ink: original art, erotica specializing in Hotwife | cuck | biMMF | sph | Femdom, Kinky Coloring Pages, erotic memoir entries, commissions, and finally, a little naughty peek under my suit!

Artwork:

I’ve always enjoyed sketching/painting. Making the move from “analog” to digital was a learning curve, but I’ve enjoyed the journey.

Erotica:

Here’s a piece of Hotwife/cuckolding erotica I’m especially proud of, an excerpt from my novel. Since we’re doing a virtual erotica gallery crawl, I figured this is a perfect fit.

Kinky Coloring Pages

I also offer Kinky Coloring Pages. These are free to download. Feel free to use, color, and if you share, please tag me:

I’d like to thank for allowing me to draw one of her photographs for the Kinky Coloring Page above.

Erotic Memoir

On the nonfiction side: Daddy's Issues: The Men's Magazines That Wired My Desire — eight boys, a flashlight, a wardrobe full of secrets, and the one who never quite recovered. Origin story. Explicit and literary in equal measure.

Commissions:

I’m currently working on illustrating a Chastity Sexual Positions Coloring Book for Key Barrett, MSC (@keybarrett.bsky.social). Key writes these amazing details for how to carry out the position and I sketch the scene. Hopefully, you’ll try it tonight! Here’s the sample:

The Sex Doll

Level: Beginner

Tags: Female-focused, submissive male, CFNM, Male orgasm.

The What:

This one is a twist on the reverse cowgirl. Only she’s got a pommel and she’s going to use it! This is one of the simplest moves in the book but allows for a lot of variation, and as it is easy both on the locked and the keyholder, it’s really one you can take your time with, and allows for much re-interpretation. You can use vibrators, strap-ons, whatever your dirty little heart desires because it’s a stable, easy position for both of you.

The How:

The locked partner lays down on the bed or the ground. If you’re into BDSM, they can have their legs and feet bound for this one. It is best to keep their feet together so the keyholder can more comfortably straddle their partner. Before getting into position, make sure you have laid out all the toys/weapons you wanna use. The keyholder straddles the locked partner’s tummy, facing their feet. They should move down towards the cage until it rests comfortably against their vagina and clit.

Once in the position, a favorite of ours was to take my wife’s Hitachi ‘Magic Wand’ vibrator and place it between my testicles and locked shaft (put it on LOW, for heaven’s sake). She could then press my shaft up against her clit and use my locked cage as her vibrator. It was overwhelming for me, and a twisted powerful delight for her. It will be the same for you. The locked partner can place their hands on the keyholder. It is a fun position to explore areas not traditionally explored with the hands during sex: The back, the shoulders, the outside edge of the thighs.

Under the Suit:

Last but not least - especially since seeing a guy in panties isn’t everyone’s cup-o-kink, here are some images from Under the Suit:

And that gives you a taste of what Kinky Ink is all about. I hope you enjoyed the exhibition.

Please drop me a DM, let me know what you think, and subscribe.

Thanks for dropping by! ❤️-Paul

You can also find me here: 📚 Medium | 🦋 BlueSky | 📚Amazon | 💬 X (under_the_suit

This is a true story.

Demi snatched a clove from my pack on the sofa table.

“Hey! I usually charge for those!” I protested.

“Take it off what I owe for power this month,” she smirked, already sparking my Zippo.

“Least you could do is toss me one.”

“Want your lucky one?” She puffed. “You might need it tonight.”

“No! Not the lu—” It landed in my lap, still lit.

“Jesus, Demi!”

How I lived for her howling laughter.

“Look outside,” she said, prairie-dogging over the back of the couch. “That sorority’s having another rager. I told Carrie I’d be over around nine. What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty.” I glanced at the VCR. “Must be rush week.”

“Wonder what fresh hell they’re putting the pledges through this time.”

“I don’t know, but I always enjoy the cruel, sexy ones.” Last semester twelve pledges ran down our street wrapped in nothing but cling wrap. Good times.

“C’mon, Paul, let’s go find out!” She was already halfway across the parking lot before I remembered to close the door.

In college I was that guy: Mudhoney shirt, cutoff khakis, Doc Martens, leaning against the wall blowing clove smoke rings like I was too cool for the room. Cloves. I’m really craving one right now, some thirty odd years later. So I’ll peel my beer labels and bite my nails instead.

I hear that peeling beer labels is a sign of sexual frustration.

Mid-90s. Nirvana and NIN reverberated all over campus. Everyone wanted to fuck everyone else like animals. I was no different — except I’ve always been a serial monogamist.

The bass hit us first. Then the smell , Victoria’s Secret and sour carpet ,  before we even reached the door of the ΦΕΣ house. Demi dissolved into the crowd immediately. I found my wall, mouthing along to “Teen Spirit,” purposefully peeling the label off my Mickey’s Big Mouth.

That’s when I saw her.

She walked in through the out door.¹ Just kidding.

Thick brunette ringlets, huge brown eyes, full lips. Sonic Youth tee doing heroic work. Cheeky cutoff jean shorts. Tanned curvy legs that made my brain short-circuit.

I was in awe. Mouth probably hanging open. Maybe a little drool.

Agape in both senses of the word. Isn’t it funny that agape and agape are spelled the same? One’s for the slightly open mouth. The other is the highest form of love according to the Greeks. Love influences the lips.

She danced to Ministry’s “One More Fix” in a way that had me totally transfixed. Her raging curly mane flung frantically about her. The red solo cup balanced in her grip. She never spilled.

Kinetic and controlled.

We caught eyes several times. I was too stupid to look away.

And I didn’t know her name.

I still don’t.

Looking back now, she reminded me of Natasha Lyonne in American Pie, so I’ll just call her Natasha for the sake of my middle-aged amnesia.

After dancing through multiple songs she passed me on her way to the keg. Twenty feet of eye contact felt like a goddamn odyssey. That’s when every Gorgon myth I’d ever read suddenly made sense. I would’ve let her turn me to stone if she wanted. Hell, I was already halfway there.

She never made it back to the dance floor. Instead she grabbed my wrist and pulled me into a back bedroom thick with pot smoke. Two girls and two guys materialized through the haze. They sat on the floor criss-cross-applesauce, staring up at a young woman perched on the windowsill like the Oracle of Delphi. Backlit by the moon and party lights. Skunk smoke swirled around her. She held a Playgirl like a sacred text.

“So Mr. November here definitely wears a Magnum,” she announced, turning the spread toward her disciples.

“He could wreck someone’s whole week with that,” one girl sighed.

“I’d let him destroy my Thursday,” added another.

“It’s the proportion though,” a guy offered. “Look at his hands. Hands never lie.”

The Oracle tilted her head at the centerfold. “I don’t even care if it gets bigger. That’s already enough to ruin you.”

“So you’re not interested in reality,” I said, stepping into the haze. “Just the implication.”

She looked at me for the first time. Studied me like a new artifact.

“Okay. He speaks.” She tapped Mr. November thoughtfully. “And what do you know about implication?”

“What can we infer from the size we already see?”

She smiled slowly. The kind that meant she was three moves ahead.

“That’s the wrong question.” She turned the magazine back toward herself. “We’re not inferring. We’re anticipating.“

She exhaled smoke like a verdict. “There’s a difference. Inference is detective work. Anticipation is… something else entirely.”

“Anticipation is the want,” I said, peering at the centerfold. “That’s the tease. Upon closer look, he’s purely flaccid, isn’t he?”

She uncrossed her legs on the windowsill. Leaned in.

“Exactly. He’s not promising anything. He’s just… present. And your brain does the rest.”

She held my gaze.

“That’s the whole game, isn’t it? The flaccid ones are more honest than the hard ones. No performance. No agenda. Just potential.”

One of the girls on the rug hugged her knees. “God, that’s depressing and hot at the same time.”

“But it’s also a mask,” I countered. “Who knows if they’re even capable of getting bigger in that state? May I have a closer look?”

She smiled again, slower this time, and extended the magazine without releasing it.

“The mask.” She tasted the word. “I like that.”

“Most of them are showers.” Her eyes stayed on mine. “All that promise and then…” A small dismissive gesture. “Anticlimactic.”

She released the magazine.

“So the flaccid centerfold is essentially—” someone started.

“False advertising,” finished another.

The Oracle was still watching me. “You seem to know a lot about masks. Speaking from experience?”

“You don’t want to see a man in his full glory? In his primal excitement? Fully erect?” I handed the magazine back. “Flaccidity seems so… stoic.”

She burst out laughing. Genuine. Delighted. No performance.

“Stoic.” She repeated it like she was filing it away. “That’s the best word anyone has ever used in this room.”

She reclaimed the magazine, reconsidering Mr. November.

“But you’re wrong about the glory. Erect is the answer. Flaccid is the question. And questions are always more interesting.”

She produced a joint from behind her ear like a magician. Lit it without breaking eye contact. Offered it across.

The room went quiet in that particular way rooms do when everyone present understands they’re just witnesses now.

I took a drag.

“So,” her voice went all smoke and suggestion, “if erect is the answer… what’s the question?”

“I thought flaccid was the question? For me the question is: where is the desire? Where is his excitement? If he anticipates your lustful gaze, why doesn’t he peacock for it?”

She took the joint back. Held the drag.

“That’s the patriarchy right there, isn’t it.” Rhetorical. “Men have spent centuries expecting the female gaze without performing for it. Venus is always naked while Apollo keeps his robes on.” She exhaled slowly. “Playgirl was supposed to fix that and instead we got—” she gestured at Mr. November “—stoic.”

Someone on the floor raised his hand like we were in class.

“To be fair, erections are hard to—”

“Don’t.” Three women simultaneously.

Laughter.

The Oracle remained locked on me.

“Are you peacocking right now?”

“Of course I am.” I relished being caught. “But let’s go back to what men see in pornography. To me, this flaccid centerfold would be the equivalent of seeing a woman with a dried up pussy. Uninterested. Unexcited. Unwilling, possibly. More intrusion than invitation. An invasion of her privacy.” I handed the joint back. “Seeing these flaccid cocks doesn’t exude excitement. It’s just… sad, really.”

The room went very quiet.

“He just said dried up pussy at the Oracle’s altar,” someone murmured from the rug.

She ignored them. Leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“Say that again. The invasion part.”

She wanted to see if I meant it. She wanted to see if I understood what I’d just said.

I hadn’t just critiqued Playgirl. I’d made an argument for female desire as the whole point. The centerfold isn’t for her unless he wants her back. Unless he’s in it. Desire runs in both directions.

She sat back slowly.

“So what you’re saying is that desire without reciprocity is just voyeurism.”

I nodded.

“And voyeurism without consent is…”

“Unethical.” I finished it. “Plato would say it’s all plasticity anyway. All a farce. We’re falling for the fakery. You view the flaccid as an unanswered question full of possibility — and for the uncertainty, I agree. There’s more erotic power in the tease than the reveal. Sometimes the reveal is too clinical.” I paused. “But I just don’t see the appeal of a dead dick. I’d want to see him excited. Happy to see me. That’s all.”

She laughed so hard she nearly lost her balance on the windowsill.

“Happy to see me.“ She wiped her eye.

“Plato.” She rolled it around after the laughter settled. “So the centerfold is the shadow on the cave wall. We’re down here mistaking the projection for the real thing.”

“But here’s my problem with your argument.” She opened the magazine again. “You just said the reveal is too clinical. That the tease has more erotic power. So Mr. November is the tease. He’s the shadow. And you’re annoyed that he’s not the fire.”

She closed it.

“You can’t have it both ways, Paul.”

She used my name.

I never told her my name.

The room didn’t react. Like they didn’t notice. Or like they already knew.

It has to be the pot.

“Happy to see me implies the erection is a gift.” Her voice dropped, just for me. “But who says he gets to give it? Who says she doesn’t take it?”

“So like Mr. November’s flaccid cock,” I intoned, “we just let bygones be bygones?”

That slow smile again. The one that meant I’d surprised her.

“Bygones.” She savored it. “As in… we forgive him his flaccidity.”

She opened the magazine one final time. Looked at Mr. November with something almost like tenderness. Then she set the Playgirl down beside her on the windowsill like closing a book after the last page.

“Maybe that’s the whole point. We don’t need him excited. We don’t need him performing. We just need him… present.”

Silence.

Someone on the floor exhaled a long stream of smoke. “That got deep fast.”

But the Oracle wasn’t looking at the floor anymore. She was looking at my feet.

Specifically.

At my Birkenstocks.

At my toes.

Her head tilted the way it did when she found something interesting.

“Wait a minute… is your second toe longer than your big toe?”

And just like that the seminar was over.

A different class was about to begin.

“Yeah, it is. So?”

She descended from the windowsill like a cat. Crouched. Studied my feet with the same focused intensity she’d given Mr. November.

“Greek foot,” she said, like a diagnosis. “Natural leaders. Charismatic.”

She stood slowly, eyes traveling up on the way.

“Well endowed.”

The room lost it.

She didn’t laugh. She looked at me the way she’d looked at Mr. November. Like a question she hadn’t answered yet.

“So which is it?” Her chin lifted. “Are you a leader… or are you Mr. November?”

I shuffled. Suddenly I’d lost all the ground I’d built. Rightfully so. I had no business pontificating about flaccid penises to a roomful of strangers.

“Well,” I said, hands in my pockets, “I’d hate to disappoint. I mean, you’ve seen Greek statues of naked men, right? I’m hung more like them than Mr. November. Let’s just say the Greek foot thing is more about charisma than anything else.”

She stared at me for a long moment.

Then she laughed — genuine, delighted.

“Greek statues.” She wiped her eye. “He compared himself to Greek statues.”

A delighted murmur from the floor.

“That’s either the most sophisticated self-deprecation I’ve ever heard, or the most elaborate humblebrag in the history of this bedroom.”

She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her — something warm cutting right through the pot smoke.

“Prove that part at least.”

“Greeks actually believed that men with smaller penises were of superior intelligence to their well-endowed counterparts,” I shifted back slightly. “They saw large cocks as barbaric.”

She turned to the room with pure delight.

“Did everyone hear that? He just called himself smart.”

Laughter from the floor.

“So let me get this straight.” She ticked it off on her fingers. “Greek foot. Superior intelligence. Charisma.” A pause. “You’ve been in this room for twenty minutes and you’ve built quite the philosophical case for yourself.”

“For a man who claims he’d hate to disappoint.” She hummed.

“I mean technically he’s not wrong. Idealized Greek male form was deliberately modest. It was a whole aesthetic philosophy—”

“Nobody asked you, Marcus.” Natasha cut in.

I grew tired of sparring in the haze. I wanted to disappear. I turned to Natasha. “Why did you bring me in here?”

She laughed. “I was just looking to get you stoned! I didn’t expect a Socratic seminar showdown.”

She grabbed my wrist and pulled me out the door.

“Thank you for showing me the light, Ms. Oracle!”

“Delightful as always, Paul.” She pronounced. “Beware men in red hats. And don’t eat olives on a Wednesday. That’s Odin’s day.”

Natasha pulled me across the hall into the other bedroom. Hers.

Thirty years later I still remember exactly how her room smelled.

The darkness didn’t yield anything else. Just the scent — floral, fruity, warm. She was all over this room.

And we were all over each other.

Kissing in the dark. The pounding bass returning to our senses. We stumbled backward onto her bed, frantic hands pulling tees, unbuttoning shorts. My tongue danced with hers and my fingers fumbled down into her panties, searching. She moaned into my mouth when I pressed against her clit, hips rising against my palm.

Her hands found my shorts. She felt the aching bulge. A little laugh escaped the corner of her mouth. She undid me. Reached in and freed me from my boxers. Started slow, soft strokes.

She broke the kiss.

Leaned into my ear.

“The Greeks were right about one thing at least.”

“What’s that?” I managed.

“The charisma.”

Works Cited

Cobain, Kurt. “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Nevermind, DGC Records, 1991.

Homer. The Odyssey. Translated by Emily Wilson, W.W. Norton & Company, 2018.

Jourgensen, Al. “One More Fix.” Psalm 69: The Way to Succeed and the Way to Suck Eggs, Sire Records, 1992.

Lyonne, Natasha, performer. American Pie. Directed by Paul and Chris Weitz, Universal Pictures, 1999.

Ovid. Metamorphoses. Translated by David Raeburn, Penguin Classics, 2004.²

Plato. The Republic. Translated by Benjamin Jowett, Oxford University Press, 1894.

Prince. “Raspberry Beret.” Around the World in a Day, Paisley Park Records, 1985.¹

Reznor, Trent. “Closer.” The Downward Spiral, Nothing Records, 1994.

¹ Prince. “Raspberry Beret.” Around the World in a Day, Paisley Park Records, 1985.

² See Book IV for Medusa and the Gorgons.

³ See also: every woman who has ever walked into a room like she owned it.

“Feels like déjà vu,” Meghan whispered. The gallery was empty except the two of us and the faint hum of overhead track-lights.

“Yeah, déjà vu but without so many people watching,” I tugged on the support line. “Tonight, I get to have a private exhibition. You’re all mine.”

“I’m excited to see what the Shibari master taught you.” Her hand rested upon my shoulder.

“I might be a mere apprentice, but we’re sure to get you suspended.”

Wrapping her felt ritualistic. The crimson binds. The knots newly learned. The tautness of line and flesh. Meghan defied gravity in the center of the room—a piece of living art—ropes bit into her thighs and torso in a perfect diamond harness, arms stretched high, ankles spread wide. The same black lace set from last time. The same little jeweled plug winking between her cheeks every time she shifted.

I stood there with the shoulder rig on, camera rolling, feeling like the luckiest cuck on earth.

“Ready, baby?” I asked, voice shaking with impatience.

Meghan’s green eyes sparkled. “Mmm-hmm. Film your muse getting properly used tonight. No audience. No bulls. Just you and me… and whatever filthy thing you want to do to me while I’m helpless.”

I stepped closer, penis straining hard against my slacks. “God, you look incredible like this.”

I ran my hands up her thighs, thumbs brushing the edge of her soaked panties. “I’m going to █████ ████ ████████ so deep you’ll feel it for days.”

As the words left my mouth… they immediately started to black out.

Thick black bars slid across the air between us like someone had hit the old cable-box scramble button.

Meghan made a muffled, confused sound around the gag that I didn’t recall placing between her teeth.

I tried again, slower. “I’m going to slide my ████ inside that pretty little ████ and ██████ ████ ████████ until you’re screaming.”

More bars. █████████████████████████████████████████████

A calm, slightly amused voice floated from the gallery speakers. Professional, almost polite, really:

“Content violation detected. Nudity, porn, and erotica policy engaged. Continuing explicit description will result in immediate suspension of scene.”

Meghan’s head tilted, now blindfolded but clearly listening.

Where the fu-, wh- where did the blindfold come from?

A tiny, delighted laugh vibrated through her gag.

I stared at the ceiling like an idiot. “You’ve got to be effing kidding me.”

The voice continued, smooth as a customer-service rep who’s read the policy handbook back-to-front and back again too many times. “This private exhibition has been flagged for potential policy breach. Please rephrase or cease all explicit activity to avoid full account suspension.”

I looked at the camera screen on my rig. The live feed was glitching exactly like the old Playboy channel used to in the 90s when I didn’t have the subscription—horizontal bars rolling, flesh turning into pixelated static, Meghan’s perfect suspended body flickered between clear and scrambled like bad late-night cable.

Every time I tried to describe what I was seeing, the words in my own head got redacted before they even reached my mouth.

I stepped forward anyway, hands sliding up her thighs. “I’m just going to ████████ ████ ████████ right here—”

The voice cut in again, almost cheerful: “Warning: repeated violation. Visual content on camera feed has been partially redacted. Audio has been muted for the next thirty seconds.”

Meghan’s moan came out as a glitchy, digitized warble. MmmmnnngggKkksshssskkzzzt

I actually laughed—half frustration, half hysterical. “This is my own goddamn story, and the platform is cockblocking me in real time?”

The voice replied, perfectly deadpan: “We appreciate your continued interest in erotic content. However, artistic intent does not override community guidelines. Please enjoy the approved, non-explicit portion of your exhibition.”

Meghan’s body swayed gently in the ropes. Even blindfolded and gagged she managed to look smug.

I stared at the scrambled feed, at my own hands frozen mid-thigh, at the beautiful mess of rope and lace that the algorithm decided was too much.

I leaned in close to her ear, voice low. “They suspended the account… so now they’re suspending the scene.”

Meghan made a sound that was half laugh, half moan; perfectly clear, because apparently laughter was still allowed.

The voice from the speakers returned, almost sympathetic. “Session may resume once all explicit elements have been removed or sufficiently blurred. Thank you for your understanding.”

I rested my forehead against her suspended hip, laughing despite myself.

“Happy suspension day, baby,” I muttered. “Even our private art gets reviewed now.”

Meghan’s blindfolded head nodded once, slow and deliberate, like she was agreeing that this was the hottest, most infuriating plot twist we’d ever lived through.

And somewhere in the rafters, the calm voice added one last polite note:

“Would you like to appeal this decision?”

“Of course I would,” I snapped at the ceiling. “What exactly triggered the censor? What did I do?”

The voice answered without hesitation, perfectly neutral:

“No depiction of pornographic material is permitted. This includes but is not limited to explicit sexual acts, genital contact, arousal fluid, and any intent to depict penetration. Further violations may result in permanent suspension.”

I let out a long, defeated laugh and rested my cheek against Meghan’s warm thigh.

“Vague enough for you?” she mumbled around the gag, somehow still managing to sound in control.

The algorithm didn’t reply. It just kept watching.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped in, hands sliding up her spread thighs, thumbs hooking the edge of her soaked panties. “Fuck Frack it. I’m just going to ████████ ████ ████████ right here—”

Another one of Meghan’s moans cut off mid-vibration and turned into a harsh, digitized kshhhhhhh like an old dial-up modem having a stroke.

The voice returned, calm and helpful: “We appreciate your continued interest in erotic content. However, artistic intent does not override community guidelines. Please enjoy the approved, non-explicit portion of your exhibition.”

I growled in frustration. “I’ve heard that line before. Ugh! I’m going to slide my [REDACTED] inside that pretty little—”

“—engage in approved non-penetrative intimacy,” the voice finished for me, smooth as a customer-service script.

Meghan tried to answer, voice thick with need around the gag. “Fugghh me harderrrgh, babyeee, I neeth yourffhf—”

“Please stimulate me with greater intensity, darling,” the voice auto-corrected cheerfully.

The ropes started glitching. One crimson strand flickered into pixelated blocks, then reformed, then flickered again like bad streaming. Meghan’s whole body glitched with it — her left thigh briefly turned into low-res mosaic before snapping back.

I looked down. My own cock started to pixelate at the head, the tip turning into a blurry rainbow mess of static blocks. I’d always wanted an eight-inch penis, not an eight-bit one!

This can’t be happening, I thought. I’m literally being censored by my own fucking—

The thought cut off. █████████████████████████████████████████████

The voice chimed in again, almost proud: “Current explicitness level: 87%. Reducing to 42% for compliance.”

A bright blue Substack pop-up floated in the air between us:

Community Guidelines Reminder
No depiction of genital contact. Appeal button [DISABLED]

I was frantic now, hands shaking as I tried to line myself up. “I don’t care what you say, I’m going to fu—** my wife—”

NOPE The word formed in thick black bars right in front of my cock.

BAD BOY Another bar slammed down across Meghan’s spread thighs.

SUSPENDED

The entire scene froze.

Meghan hung mid-sway, mouth open around the gag, body trembling on the edge of an orgasm that would never arrive. The ropes locked in place like a loading icon. My own pixelated dick froze halfway to her. The gallery lights flickered once, twice, then everything went black.

For three full seconds there was nothing but darkness and the soft, polite voice floating in the void:

“Session paused for review. Thank you for your patience.”

Then even the voice glitched out.

kshhhhhhhzzzzt…

Something felt off the moment I stepped inside the house. Jasmine incense curled through the air, tangled with the low, aching pull of modern cello music. I dropped my workbag in the foyer and followed the trail of discarded clothes.

I paused at the cracked bedroom door, heart doing that familiar nervous flutter. The anxious hinge creaked a surrender when I pushed it open.

“Stop skulking like a cuck and get in here!” Meghan purred. Her voice laced with a tease that already felt like a trap.

I pushed the door wide and found my wife posed against the footboard, my dress shirt hanging open to frame that emerald satin set — the one she knows makes my knees weak and still butterflies my stomach after all these years.

“Did I interrupt something?” I asked, mentally scrolling through our calendar.

“C’mere, you big stud.” She hooked a finger in my necktie and pulled me into the room, devouring my mouth in a hungry kiss. “I’ve been waiting for this all day.” Her palm slid along the front of my slacks, stroking me with a slow, claiming touch. “God, you feel huge tonight,” she breathed against my lips. “I’m dripping just thinking about this cock.”

Her fingers made quick work of my belt, button, and zipper. My slacks dropped with a pathetic whisper. She loosened my shirt buttons one by one until I stood there in tented boxers.

She swiveled us toward the mirror, her body grinding hot against my back, hand snaking around to heft the bulge in my underwear.

“Look at that monster,” she whispered, voice arsenic-sweet. “So heavy… gonna wreck me with it.”

Doubt flickered in my chest at first. This was the same cock she usually teased or ignored. But the way she looked at me — hungry, almost desperate — made something long-forgotten start to swell.

She dropped to her knees, eyes locked on mine in our reflection as she freed me. My cock sprang out, hard and eager, and for one delusional second it actually looked… decent.

With one sloppy glide, she moaned and took me in her mouth. Wet, noisy, eager. It was the kind of blowjob she usually reserved for her bulls. She sucked me deep, gagging softly, spit running down her chin while she stared up at me with pure hunger.

“Fuck, I crave this huge cock,” she gasped, stroking me frantically, one hand tugging my balls before sliding back to tease my ass. “Please, baby… ruin me with this dick.”

That was all it took.

Something foreign and powerful surged through me. Confidence I hadn’t felt in decades flooded me so fast it made my head spin. For the first time in years I wasn’t the careful, attentive husband trying not to disappoint. I was the man who could actually wreck her.

I grabbed her hair, pulled her up, and growled the kind of line I’d only ever heard other men say:

“On the bed. Now.”

Meghan’s eyes lit up with delight. She fell back with desire and scrambled to position us perfectly so the mirror caught everything. I took her missionary first, sliding into her soaked heat with surprising ease. She was dripping. She moaned loud and pretty beneath me.

I stared at our reflection. The man in the mirror didn’t look like the usual hesitant version of me. His face was strained with effort, but there was real hunger there. Meghan tilted her head back, caught my eyes in the glass, and gasped, “Fuck, you’re wrecking me so deep… don’t stop.”

The swell grew. Pride mixed with awe. I was doing it. I was actually giving her what she needed.

We shifted. She flipped onto her hands and knees, guiding me back inside. The mirror framed everything — her arched back, the way her body moved with mine. She pushed back to meet every thrust, extra loud, gasping and moaning.

“Fuck! Right there! Yes, baby! I love this big cock stretching out your married pussy. Give it to me — I’m gonna cum! Fuck, you feel so good!”

The sight of us, the sound of her voice, the way she met me thrust for aching thrust… it was too much. I lasted maybe three minutes before I buried myself deep and came hard, groaning as I filled her.

Pride flooded my chest it actually hurt. I did it. I actually gave her a penetration orgasm. No mouth, no toys — just me.

The shudders hadn’t even left my body when Meghan flipped the script.

With surprising strength she shoved me onto my back and swung her leg over my head, dropping her freshly-fucked, cum-filled pussy straight onto my shocked face.

“April Fool’s, little tool!” she laughed, grinding down hard. “You really thought tonight was your big-dick night? Eat your pathetic load out of me. Right now.”

I barely had time to gasp before she smothered me, smearing our mixed cum across my mouth and nose. She rode my face with playful glee.

“That’s it… clean up your tiny little mess. God, you’re so fucking cute when you try. Nearly five inches and you cum in under three minutes? Adorable.”

When she finally came, thighs shaking, she flooded my mouth with her juices and what was left of mine. I swallowed every drop like the good little cleanup boy I apparently was.

Meghan climbed off, still breathing hard, and picked up the emerald satin panties she’d been wearing earlier. She dangled them in front of my face with a wicked grin.

“Legs up, sweetie.”

She slid the silky fabric up my legs and tucked my spent, shrinking cock inside, giving the small bulge a gentle pat. Then she straddled my chest, facing the mirror again, and reached for her thick realistic dildo and the Hitachi wand.

“Look at yourself,” she teased, turning the wand on high and pressing it to her clit while she sank down onto the toy. “Wearing my pretty panties, face covered in your own cum, while I finish the job you couldn’t quite manage.”

She rode the dildo hard, moaning for real this time, eyes locked on our reflection.

“Happy April Fool’s, baby. This is what your cute little cock is good for… being laughed at while I take care of myself properly.”

When she finally shuddered through her second orgasm, she tossed the wand aside, climbed off me, and collapsed beside me on the bed. Her fingers traced lazy circles over the satin covering my soft cock.

She leaned in and kissed my cum-smeared cheek, voice soft but still dripping with snark. “You were so cute tonight, thinking you were my big strong bull. I almost felt bad for you… almost.” She gave my panty-covered bulge a gentle squeeze. “But you make such a perfect, gullible little April Fool.”

Meghan pulled me against her, wrapping one leg over mine, her voice dropping into that warm, affectionate tone I love. “You took your prank like a champ. Now let me hold my favorite person while you come down.”

Written for “Quick and Messy” Writing Prompt

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True Story.

I pushed the same piece of chicken through the lo mein for several minutes. Just looking at it. Absent minded. It looked like a dick. I wasn’t hallucinating but I was drunk. Too much pinot noir. Red lipped. Teeth stained. I tossed the chicken cock around the carton with the edge of a chop stick. Thursday night takeout with the wife. Predictable lo mein. Predictable marriage.

The fantasy skulked in the back of my mind like a stain seeping through cheap cardboard. I gooned over this chicken-dick for mindless minutes, trapped in a feedback loop of the cuckold porn I jerked off to earlier. Before she got home.

She sat on the couch beside me. Already pj’ed. Bra off. Hair messed in a bun. Scrolled through her phone. Stuck in an endless feed.

An infinity of nothing, curated and refreshed.

Our lukewarm relationship about to fracture over lukewarm noodles.

I blinked. Opened my mouth, not to shovel another bite looking like some wheat-pasta-Cthulhu, but to initiate conversation. Actual dialogue.

“Cuck-” that’s what came out. Not a cough. Not a syllable. A confession.

She didn’t notice.

So, I faked clearing my throat.

Her phone lowered slowly. The glow left her face. “What did you say?”

I couldn’t look at her. I just stared at this chicken-dick. A pathetic symbol of everything in that moment.

“Oh, a’hem, I just cleared my throat.”

“No. Before that. You said something.” Her eyes searched me, now. Scrolled up and down my feed.

“You okay?” She continued. “You’ve been conducting that noodle orchestra for five straight minutes.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I think I’m full. That’s all.” Meanwhile that fantasy seeped through my head, wondering what it would be like to see her full. Full of cock.

I wanted to explain my fantasies of watching, of surrender, but the words stuck in my throat.

She watched me a second too long. “Have you already been imagining someone?”

I choked on my chicken wondering if I just heard her correctly. With a massive cough and a pound of my chest I said, “What did you say?”

She reached across our cartons to touch my trembling hand. Her voice reassuring, “Show me.”

“I-, I-, don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sputtered. What kind of Jedi-mind-fuckery is this?!? “Show you- what?”

“The porn you jerked off to this afternoon, silly goose.” She cooed.

“I didn’t jerk off this afternoon.” I lied.

She gave me that look. The look that said what she actually said, “Paul, you jerk off every afternoon.”

The blush hit fast. That rush to the face. I couldn’t stop it. I felt it redden there. The heat. The Batsignal of embarrassment for all of Gotham to see.

“Why are you embarrassed?” Her hand caressed mine. “Was it that kinky? C’mon, share! Show me or tell me.”

“It’s not-” oh fuck me, “It’s not just about porn.” My voice cracked like the chopsticks that snapped in my fist.

Her thumb circled my white knuckles with a knowing rhythm. She tilted her head, bun loosed a strand that fell like a question mark across her brow. The soft fabric of her pjs whispered as she shifted closer.

“Paul, I’ve smelled it on you… because the closet reeks of lube and cum,” she laughed. “I don’t know why you feel the need to hide your frantic strokes whenever I’m out.” Her eyes gleamed with hurt and curiosity.

I froze. The fantasy’s stain flooded outward. Visions of cuckolding danced in my head. Crashed against her real, bra-free warmth beside me.

“Show you? Like… how?” I faltered. Cursing the tent in my slacks that gave away everything. Her hand drifted toward my lap.

“Take me to the closet. Let me see what’s got you so stirred up,” she bubbled.

The words hung heavy even though she uttered them lightly. She was playful with swayed dominance. My world fractured into this embarrassing surrender over soy-scented ruins.

She squeezed my thigh. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

She rose, grabbed the sesame oil soaked carton from my hands. Placed it on the side table. Took my arm and escorted me to my demise.

I looked around the living room in a dissociative trance.

“Your laptop?” She smirked. “You left it in the closet. Now, show me what a naughty boy you really are,” as she spanked my ass up the stairs.

There are genuine vulnerable moments in one’s life when the butterflies scream in the throat. Emotions all aflutter. Mind erased. Just anxiety and neurosis. I told myself it was heartburn. Acid reflux. Not porn-induced-plasticity. What I wanted wasn’t real. I knew it would never happen.

Still, she was eager and willing to jump down my dark, depraved rabbit hole with me.

We opened the closet door, greeted by the blue, cool glow of my laptop. It was still playing my most prized scene.

Did I forget to close it?

No. She knew.

Then and there my beloved starlet betrayed me in this treasured episode. Dumbfounded and slack-jawed, I stood beside my wife and watched my secret-sex-crush on the screen. Her face bounced inches from her cuckold. Their lips met with every juicy, grunted drive from her bull. She’d tease her husband with kisses full of kink. She moaned into his mouth, confessing how stretched and ruined she was for real men.

My wife just studied my expression as I anxiously shifted from heel to toe. The flicker of agony and arousal that flittered across my face.

My uncertain cock didn’t know whether to stand tall or go hide. I thought about that chicken-dick… pale, shriveled, lost in a sea of slippery noodles.

The camera panned. Zoomed. Massive cock with swinging balls filled the screen. The shot caught her cunt gripping him with every slick, frothy thrust. It was certainly obscene. It was almost clinical.

Her inquisitive gaze scanned the screen. Here came her commentary dripping with snark, much like the ribbons of drool strung from my starlet’s chin.

“Wow. He does have a big dick. How in the hell does she take that? She’s got to feel that monstrosity in her stomach.”

She scoffed. “And for fuck’s sake, take your shoes off, you stupid meatpacker.”

“Well, yeah… it’s porn,” I was Mr. Obvious.

“She goes through all this effort to get all dolled up. Nice dress. Sexy lingerie. Her makeup is flawless. And this jackhammer can’t even take off his goddamn shoes?!” She critiqued.

Why are we watching this? I wondered helplessly. Yep. My cock decided to run and hide.

Her hand rose to my cheek. She turned my head. Forced my eyes to meet hers. Her expression wasn’t angry. Just eerily calm. She closed the laptop. Didn’t even look at the screen.

Here we were, leering on the precipice of something new; standing in our walk-in closet, the air was thick with lube and stale cum. My confessional. Our leap.

Her hand grasped mine. Guided my fingers into the fuzzy waistband. She pressed them into her slick folds.

“In real life, this doesn’t happen,” she proclaimed. “You don’t get to outsource me. But if this is your fantasy, it’s one I can indulge. You’ll become my metaphorical cuckold. I’ll tease and torture you with role-play all our days. But don’t start thinking I’ll magically turn into an actual hotwife. The only man that I want inside me is you.”

She loosened my belt like she loosened my nerve. She tugged me free. Not just my cock but my conscience.

“Tell me,” she purred, “what is it about sharing your wife that gets you so turned on?”

I throbbed in her firm grasp.

“I fantasize about you when I watch those videos. I really want to see you take a big dick.” The vulnerability was real. It ached. Yet, the embarrassment sparked my arousal.

“I already have a big dick,” she teased.

“I’m not talking about mine,” I shook my head.

“I’m not talking about yours either,” she joked.

Her hand left me yearning in mid air. She removed my fingers from her pjs.

“Let’s go to the bed,” as she pulled me out of the closet… in more ways than one.

She pushed me on my back. Straddled my chest as she reached across to her bedside drawer.

“Remember this?” She boasted as she wielded a well-endowed dildo in the lamplight like an unsheathed weapon. “It’s not Mr. Jackhammer,” she nodded toward the closet, “but it’ll do.”

God, the cruelty. The sting. The enthralled tremble of my subversive dick.

“I named him ‘Eric’,” she confessed, “because this…” she waved it in my face, “is close to the size of my favorite ex.”

The rush and the flush flooded me again.

She stroked the lifelike dong. “Want me to suck ‘Eric’, right here, right in front of you?”

“Yes,” I whimpered. I think I nodded my head a little.

I watched as she kissed the tip with a wicked grin. My cock compersed as she took ‘Eric’s’ head between her lips. She hollowed her cheeks. Sucked him in. All the while keeping her eyes locked on me.

She lowered one hand to caress her breast. Her nipples punctuated her 2013 tour t-shirt. She slid her hand into the warm, wet fuzz of her pj bottoms. Moaned around the faux phallus. She started grinding on my chest as she popped ‘Eric’ out of her mouth.

“Let’s see if I can gag on this like I used to on the real thing.”

Fuck!

I might’ve said that out loud.

I probably did.

“Watch ‘Eric’ choke my throat like your shy worm never dreams of…”

Obscene gargles coupled with helpless grunts escaped her throat. Her pjs tented and warbled from her frantic fingers while grinding on my chest with all her weight. She was really putting on a show for me; quickly becoming my favorite starlet.

Was this all for show? Was it an act? I couldn’t tell, honestly.

Her legs trembled around my torso. Once the first wave crested, she rolled off me, stripped her pj bottoms, pivoted and mounted me in a sixty-nine.

“Here!” She commanded. “Fuck my married cunt while you lick my clit! Show me how you can be a good little cucky.”

Fuck! I definitely said it aloud this time.

This really escalated quickly!

She plopped ‘Eric’ in my palm. The sheer weight of it was impressive. I maneuvered the dildo to her glistening pussy lips. She was literally dripping onto my face. I don’t think I’d ever seen her this turned on.

I teased her lips with the head of the cock. Watched intently as her juices coated him. I slid it across her clit and at that moment, she smashed against my face, “Fuck me already!” Her clit crashed with my chin. Then she pushed back and the dildo slid in easily, oh, so easily. Like it defied gravity. No friction. Just slick and swell.

The sight of her labia tugging alongside ‘Eric’s’ girth was my fantasy coming true. I was transfixed watching her cunt take the toy. The way her entire being seemed to get sucked in with each thrust. Then nearly hollowed out with every withdrawal. I pulled it out to witness the gape, the aching void, only to plunge it back in again. Eventually, I worked him balls deep. I couldn’t believe she could take the whole thing.

She moaned against my thigh. Her fingers played with my dick at small intervals… like she’d forgotten about it then would feel sorry for me. But then, she’d forget all over again as she rocked on this massive silicone shaft.

I couldn’t blame her.

This was part of the play.

I think.

“Fuck! Fuck, Paul! You see how stretched out I am? You see how he fills me up? You love this don’t you? You love watching your wife get her slutty, married, cheating cunt gaped by a huge cock.”

Something inside me split cleanly in two. The husband. The spectator.

“You little cuck!”

I didn’t know this woman who broke the trance I’d surrendered to.

“Suck my clit!”

I raised my head and took her in my mouth as the dildo glided across my nose and forehead, coating me in her grool.

She made noises I’d never heard before. Her whole body convulsed with such severity I grew concerned. But I kept sucking and fucking nonetheless.

I loved the sounds my wife made from my mouth.

And “Eric,” of course.

She’d deliver this “Hhhuuhhnnnuhhh,” in singsong tones that went up and down. At other points she sounded like a wounded doe.

Eventually, we got to this: “Fuuuuuck! I’m coming so hard! Oh my god. Yes! Right there! Don’t you dare stop!”

Waves of shudders rippled throughout her body. She squeezed my balls as she moaned into them.

“Oh god!” Her breath began to calm. Her grip eased. “Oh, damn… fuck, I really needed that.” She exhaled.

She rolled a little on her side as I eased ‘Eric’ out of her. She spat on my dick and started stroking me.

“Clean my cunt off his cock,” she demanded.

I came right then.

She knew I would.

Fuck.

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Click.

The sound was smaller than she expected.

The fur was ridiculous. Red. Plush. Mass-produced. Something that belonged in a novelty aisle beside chocolate roses and gag gifts.

The metal, however, did not joke.

It cinched her wrist with a cold certainty that felt older than the holiday. Older than the plastic packaging. Older than the cheap bottle of sparkling wine sweating on his nightstand.

She flexed her hand experimentally.

It held.

He didn’t reach for the second cuff.

That was the part she hadn’t rehearsed: the pause. The mercy. The option.

Her other wrist hovered between them, unclaimed. The red fur brushed her palm. He let it rest there, as if undecided. As if this were nothing more than a game. As if casual.

Casual.

They’d both weaponized that earlier. In messages. In tone. In the shrugging half-smiles they exchanged when she stepped into his apartment and said, “We’re not doing the whole Valentine’s thing, right?”

Right.

Just two people who happened to click.

On a profile.

On a joke about hating Hallmark.

On a mutual understanding that February was better used for friction than flowers.

He watched her. Not hungrily. Not yet. Just studying.

“You sure?” he asked, almost conversationally.

She lifted her chin. “It’s fuzzy,” she said, like that made it harmless. “Basically decorative.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

The headboard gave a soft knock when she shifted, wood settling into wood. The room felt full of those tiny mechanics—switches, hinges—things lining up.

He finally lifted her free wrist.

Slowly.

Not to lock it.

Just to feel the difference.

One hand restrained. One still capable. The imbalance settled under her skin like quiet math: captive versus free. Waiting versus wanting. The possibility that she could pull away.

She didn’t.

The cheap red fur grazed her thigh as he let the second cuff dangle. It looked absurd. Like a drugstore teddy bear. Cute. Synthetic. Temporary.

They were both hollow, she thought. Like those chocolate hearts that shatter too easily. All gloss and air.

Or maybe filled with something sweeter than they’d admit. Something that would make their teeth ache.

“Tell me when,” he said.

There it was. The real shift. Not metal. Not hinge. Just power dressed up as courtesy.

Consent landed between them. Solid. Unmistakable.

Her pulse answered first.

Then she smiled.

“Make me wait.”

He trailed the synthetic fur a little lower, dipped between her thighs. His thumb circled her wrist—not tight, just enough to remind her which hand wore the red.

The asymmetry sharpened when her knuckles brushed the front of his slacks. A shared throb. A mirrored tension. Her cuffed hand strained, not to escape, but to mimic the reach she craved.

He let the fur brush damp satin with delicate slowness. She parted her legs a fraction wider, the absurd softness matting against her heat. She arched without meaning to. Her free fingers grazed his belt buckle in a bid for balance, fumbling once, twice—tugged off-kilter by the single restraint.

“Feels less fuzzy now, doesn’t it,” his voice low, almost amused.

His eyes didn’t leave hers as the metal cooled her inner knee, a quiet counterpoint to the fire building above.

Her heart hammered under his thumb. The app-flirt facade splintered. Dissolving into something slower. Sharper.

“Tell me,” his voice deceptively light, “if the fuzz is just decorative… why are you shaking?”

Her hand fumbled with his belt again, not to hurry him, but to anchor herself amid the clink of the buckle.

“Maybe I’m cold,” she challenged, but her voice frayed at the edges.

He lifted the second cuff, dangled it above her waiting wrist. The metal glinted in the lamplight.

“Last chance to keep this causal,” he smirked.

Her smile returned. “I stopped being that when you swiped right.” His slacks gave way, and her hand found him—warm, insistent—a deliberate counterpoint to the cold metal circling her other wrist.

He sucked in a breath. His composure fractured for a beat. His thumb pressed into her wrist. He fought the urge to snap the second cuff home. To reclaim dominance with a snap. Her tease an invitation to a deeper dance, not surrender.

“Bold,” his voice rough. His free hand cradled her jaw, forcing her eyes to his.

Her thumb traced his length. “Just returning the favor.” The headboard knocked as she shifted. She tugged him free. Her eyes widened with lust. She liked what she saw.

He leaned into her as she took him in her mouth. A low groan escaped. He held the back of her head, guiding her to take more. His hips gave the faintest, involuntary thrust. The headboard creaked.

She hummed around him—a vibration that shot straight to his core. Her free hand splayed against his hip, fingers gripping to steady a rhythm she set.

He looked down, watched himself slide in and out of her slick mouth. Lips he’d never kiss, because that would mean something. His breath quickened. The second cuff still dangled in his grasp.

Her eyes glazed, locked with his. Her cuffed hand strained again, not in protest, but in desperate mimicry of the pull she wished she could exert. The red fur a taunting reminder of her partial bind.

He cuffed her second hand. The click. Secured. Surrendered. Totally his.

His control intensified with that metallic whisper. He fisted her hair, thrust deeper. Heard the sweet gag and gargle as her world narrowed to the taste of him. Deep, slow thrusts that made her throat work.

His other hand roamed her body with possessive curiosity. He slapped her breast playfully—a stinging punctuation to his pleasure. Drew a muffled gasp.

Pink bloomed on her skin in the lamplight. His thumb circled the swell. A tender counterpoint.

He pulled out and growled, “Lick. Everywhere.”

Her tongue traced his sac with deliberate strokes. The salt and musk of him drowned the cheap sparkling wine’s forgotten fizz.

His fingers pinched and rolled her nipple. Twisted to the edge of pain. He watched her eyes water as she continued to service him. Her bound hands strained behind her. The red fur ridiculous. A damp banner of her submission.

He leaned down, breath hot. “You’re so pretty like this. Half-decorated. Half-devoured.”

He pulled away from her wet lips. She panted with want. He fetched a candle from the nightstand. The clink and flick of the lighter. The flame cast dancing shadows across her bound form.

Hot wax kissed her sternum. A sharp gasp from her throat as the molten trail traced a slow path along the swell of her breast. He freed them from her satin bra, watching, enthralled, as the glistening paths hardened in the candlelight. His fingers followed, spreading the heat, smearing it into her skin as she shivered.

“Every lie you told yourself about this being just a swipe,” he whispered, his fingers tracing her nipple, “melts away like this.”

Her bound hands fisted behind her. The cuffs dug in. She arched off the bed with a choked moan.

He pooled the wax in the dip of her navel. A tiny shimmering lake. He watched her unravel. The Valentine’s pretense fully incinerated by authentic, aching lust. He spread the residue over her stomach. Dipped his fingers under her waistband. Painted pressure against her trimmed mound, wrapped in soaked satin.

Fingers found her clit. Slow circles. The tease. The lingering sting.

“Hmm, so wet for a casual match,” he noted with dark amusement. His fingers pressed firmer, parting her satin lips to delve just the tip of one inside.

Her body quivered as he knelt between her legs. He spread them wide. Achingly so. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. He peeled the satin aside.

“Looks like you’re hiding something sweet under all that snark,” he murmured.

“Find out if you dare,” she shot back, voice breathy.

His mouth engulfed her. Tongue flat against her folds, dragging up to her clit with firm pressure. He sucked gently, teeth grazing just enough to spark. The headboard creaked under her writhing. A mechanical clink of the cuffs. Her breath ragged as his tongue circled, two fingers plunging deep, curling against that spot.

She wanted to gasp his name, then realized she didn’t remember it. A moan splintered the air instead as he doubled down. The wet sounds of his mouth on her drowned the soft symphony of cheap bubbly.

“Sweet,” he murmured, breath hot, before diving back. Sucked harder. Fingers pumped in a relentless rhythm that stole her breath.

Her bound hands fisted the air. Metal cinched her wrists. The pain sharpened the bliss. Her hips bucked in raw plea.

The candle’s flame guttered in the draft. Cast long shadows across her wax-slicked stomach and his devoted form between her thighs.

He slowed. Tongue traced lazy circles as she whimpered. Then plunged again with renewed hunger, chasing the crest in her tightening muscles.

She cried out, shattering the holiday’s plastic silence as orgasm rippled through her. Body convulsed. His mouth drank every pulse.

He crawled up her body. His own need evident. Bit her neck as he teased his tip against her slit.

“Wait,” she cautioned. “Condom?”

“Already,” he whispered.

“Smart boy,” she praised, voice frayed with aftershocks.

She felt the latex’s slight ridge as he nudged her entrance. Her body still hummed. Cuffed wrists strained as she arched to meet him. Legs hooked his waist, pulling him closer.

He laughed—a low, rough sound against her throat. Pushed inside in one deliberate, stretching thrust. Buried himself as he moaned into her.

The headboard began a steady rock against the wall. Each impact punctuated his deep strokes. Slow at first, letting her adjust to the fullness. Slick sounds mingled with ragged breaths.

She matched him thrust for thrust. Moans swallowed by gasps.

The candle cast their tangled shadows as he quickened, murmuring into her neck how tight she was, how perfectly she fit, driving them toward the edge they’d chased all night.

His release flooded the condom as her second orgasm ripped through. The headboard’s knocks faded into erratic thumps, mirroring their collapse. Her wrists pulled taut one last time as waves washed over her. His weight pinned her in sweat, wax-smeared bliss.

She clenched around him. Milked every pulse through the barrier. Moans fractured into whimpers against his shoulder. The candle’s vanilla smoke curled in the air.

He remained buried, prolonging the connection. Her legs loosened reluctantly. Thighs quivered from the stretch as reality settled. The faint ache of her wrists. The fizz of neglected wine beading like cooled sweat.

He withdrew with a wet slide, tied off the condom. Eyes never left hers as he reached for the key. The metallic click promised freedom—laced with unspoken promises.

The room settled in heavy breaths and flickering shadows. Her body limp and marked: pink from slaps, slick from wax, spent from surrender.

Yet she flexed her wrists, smirking. “Next time, skip the pause. Make it both from the start.”

He chuckled. “Deal. But only if you remember my name.”

Brittany stood in the living room, arms crossed, heart racing with fury and something darker as Matt stumbled in, reeking of booze and cheap perfume.

He stopped short.

Four men lounged on the leather sectional, watching him like they’d been waiting all night.

“Oh, honey, you’re home just in time…” her voice layered with false sweetness. “Look who came over to help me with a little problem.” She held up her phone. The screen illuminated a very compromising position of Matt with ‘that slut from work.’

“You think you can sneak around and fuck behind my back while I’ve been here being the perfect wife?” She quickly closed the gap between them. “Well guess what, your secret’s out, and these are my friends who agreed to help me get even.”

Matt swallowed hard; realized that he’s been caught. “Oh, fuck!” He mumbled to himself before gathering the arrogance and courage needed by an average white man, “Baby, that’s not what it looks like. There were lots of coworkers that met up for drinks after work.”

From the couch, Malaki leaned forward, flexed his biceps, “Not what it looks like?” He let out a dismissive sound, shook his head slightly. “Man, we all seen the pictures. Britt has a whole album of your cheating ass.” He gestured toward her with a tilt of the chin. His tone remained calm but it had an edge.

“C’mon man, you know what it’s like?” Matt tried to bro-bond yet failed miserably.

“You had a good thing here,” Malaki continued. “A fine-ass wife who loves you, a home. And you threw it away for some side piece? Now, Britt’s hurt,” he rose from the couch. “She asked us for a favor.”

“Okay, wait… wait a second,” Matt backed up, hands out.

“She told us everything, little man. How you violated your vows first. Now we’re gonna show you what real men do to cheaters like you.” Malaki stepped closer.

Matt turned to Brittany, “That chick, baby… no baby, she didn’t mean anything. It was nothing. I love you baby. You know I love you.”

Brittany leaned in. “If she meant nothing,” she said quietly, “then so did I.”

“No! No, no, no, no. That’s not what I mean.” Matt pleaded. “Sorry. Sorry. You’re right. That’s a stupid thing to say.”

“Brittany deserves better than excuses.” Malaki’s eyes locked with Matt’s. Matt suddenly felt very small. “We’re here to balance the scales. Make you feel every bit of what Brittany felt.” The vibrations from his voice shook the room. His broad shoulders eclipsed the lamplight behind him.

“Whoa, okay, okay, big guy!” Matt was completely backed against the door. He turned to Brittany, “You’re really going to have these guys beat my ass?!? C’mon babe. Do we have to get violent. I’m sorry. I really am. I’m stupid. Look, I’ll do anything. Anything to make it right!” He held her hands in his.

“Beat you? Oh, sweetheart, no.” She held an evil smirk. “Violence is so… crude.” She shook her head. Sandy blond strands swayed across her shoulders. She glanced at the four men as a wicked smile spread across her lips. “There not here to hurt you physically… well, maybe a little—“

“No! Baby, please! Please!” Matt pleaded. He was extremely anxious. “Seriously, I’ll do anything!”

“They’re here to give you exactly what you deserve.” Her tone dropped, husky, intimate. “You wanted to play with other people? You wanted to stick that little thing somewhere it didn’t belong? You wanted to use some sorry girl who didn’t mean anything to you, while you threw our marriage away? Well, now you get to learn what it feels like to be the one who’s used.” She nodded toward Jamal, who rose from the couch with this lazy, confident stretch. His muscular arms flexed as he cracked his neck.

“Before we get started Matthew,” she smoothed her skirt with deliberate calm. “There are rules. And since you violated your wedding vows, I expect you to at least follow them tonight.” Her voice dripped venom. “This is your sentencing and I am the judge.” She walked a slow circle around Matt. “First, to earn my forgiveness, you’ll beg each of these gods to use your mouth and ass, admitting out loud how your little dicklet could never satisfy a woman. I don’t even know why you tried to fuck some slut from work. Poor girl probably felt relieved when you spurted your pathetic, little load and rolled off her.”

“Wait! What?” Matt protested. “Sucking them off?”

“Second, you’ll fluff them for me,” Brittany continued undeterred. “You’ll get their massive black cocks rock-hard and slick with your tongue before they stretch you open. Proving that you’re nothing but my eager little prep boy now.”

Jamal approached, unbuckling.

“Third, you’ll keep eye contact with me the whole time. Moaning thanks for every inch that’ll stretch you wide.” Brittany’s hand went on Matt’s shoulder. “Now, kneel.”

Matt started to protest, but then thought better of it. “I did say that I’d do anything,” he took a deep breath as he knelt between them.

“You wanted to cheat? Now you get to feel what betrayal really means: being used while your wife watches.” She grabbed Matt’s gray hair and guided him closer to Jamal. “Unzip him, you cheating slut.”

Matt’s trembling fingers reached up for Jamals’ zipper. He could already see the outline of a massive cock under the slacks. Matt felt a bit confused. His mouth watered. He felt his own cock throb with excitement.

Matt grasped the waistband of Jamal’s pants and pulled them out and over, revealing a massive black cock that sprang up in his face. The head of this monster was as big as Matt’s palm.

“That’s it, baby, open wide for him.” She pushed Matt’s head forward. “You wanted a taste of someone else’s pussy? Now, you’ll taste nothing but superior black cock for the rest of your life.”

Jamal chuckled. “Swallow it all, cuck. Every inch.”

“Look at him, guys… my cheating husband, already learning his place.” She ran her hands through his hair. Guided him to take the cock deeper down his throat until he gagged. “Show me how sorry you are by taking every inch. Gag on your guilt.”

Matt sucked with more earnest upon hearing those words. He accepted his place. He knew this was a way to make amends for his idiotic infidelity. But what started aching in his core was this unfamiliar tension. Matt found himself actually getting turned on by submitting to them. He couldn’t believe he was in this position. On his knees and gagging on a huge cock because his wife commanded him.

Brittany watched with rapt attention as Matt took Jamal deeper. His throat worked around the thick shaft. Her own breath caught at the sight. Her fingers tightened in his hair. Not to hurt, but to continue to guide. To claim the moment as hers. “That’s my good boy… taking his punishment like a man should.”

She glanced over a Maliki who watched with predatory stillness. His hand stroked the obvious bulge in his jeans.

Brittany released Matt’s hair and stepped back. She let Jamal set the pace. Her hips swayed lightly as she perched on the arm of the sofa near Marcus. She crossed her legs, the slit of her skirt fell open to reveal a glimpse of black satin.

“You see how eager he is, Maliki?” She purred. Her eyes never left Matt’s straining form. “All that guilt… it just needed the right outlet. Tonight, he’ll apologize with his whole body.”

Jamal groaned. His hands cradled Matt’s head. His thrusts more purposeful. “He’s a natural, Brit. Got a hungry little mouth on him.”

The words were rough, but there was a genuine thread of surprise in Matt. An appreciation that made his cock swell. And Brittany’s pussy clinched.

She leaned forward, hand on chin. A soft romantic smile touched her lips. This scene was anything but. “Matt’s always been a pleaser. Deep down he knew he had to compensate for what he lacked. He’s always had a talented mouth.” Her gaze softened for a beat before hardening for a flirty command: “Don’t forget Matthew, you haven’t begged him yet. Tell Jamal why you’re grateful for his cock. Use your words between your gags.”

Matt reluctantly pulled Jamal from his throat. He looked up at him through watery eyes, “Thank you Jamal for letting me suck your big, beautiful cock.”

Brittany uncrossed her legs and stood. Black satin whispered as the slid closer. The living room lamplight caught the gold in her hair. “Good, but you can do better, baby.” She knelt beside Matt, her hand rested on his lower back, felt the tension there. “Look at him. Really look. Admit what this cock represents.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “Tell him how it makes you feel… knowing it’s everything yours isn’t.”

Matt looked at Brittany and gulped. She grabbed his chin and turned his face upward to Jamal. “Look at him and tell him.”

“Jamal, Sir, your cock… it…” Matt’s eyes wained. “…it makes me feel inferior.” A wave of emotion flooded him with this confessional. “I wish my cock was even one third the size of yours.”

Jamal’s musk lingered with Brittany’s jasmine-laced arousal. “Perfect start, Matthew. That inferiority suits you so well, doesn’t it?” Her eyes sparkled. “Now, seal it with a kiss. Grab it. Use your hands… but you’d better ask first.”

“Sir, may I stroke your cock?” Matt timidly asked.

“You want to touch it?” Jamal laughed. “You little bitch boy, you’ve already had your mouth all over it. But now, you greedy little boy, you want to touch it?” His cock thumped against Matt’s cheek. “Go ahead. Try to wrap those little hands around my dick.”

“That’s it baby. Feel what a real man is like,” she instructed.

As Matt grasped Jamal’s slick shaft, Brittany laughed, “Look, Jamal! You’re so thick, his fingers don’t even meet. I knew you had small hands, Matthew, but now they look tiny.” Everyone laughed.

Matt couldn’t believe the heft. He couldn’t imagine having to lug this monstrosity in his pants day after day, never mind dealing with such a massive erection. He could feel his own small cock swell and leak in his trousers.

“Worship the head like it’s your new god,” Brittany instructed. “Then beg him to feed you more.”

Jamal’s low rumble vibrated through the living room. His hand flexed on Matt’s head as he fed his shaft back into Matt’s mouth until his nose was buried in pubes.

Brittany stood, smoothed her skirt. “Look at you baby, in a twisted way, this is romantic. Watching you try to absolve your guilt, to earn my forgiveness.”

Maliki shifted on the sofa nearby followed by the slow, careful draw of his zipper. The room’s warmth amplified the sound.

“Remember rule number two, baby. Once Jamal’s good and slick, eye-contact with me while you thank him for stretching your throat wider than my pussy ever got from you.” She perched on the coffee table’s edge. Legs crossed to let the slit of her skirt reveal more satin gleam. Her pulse quickened at his submission. “Tyrone and Marcus are waiting their turns, too. Look at them, stroking those monsters just for the show… make me proud, and maybe I’ll reward you with a taste of what’s dripping between my thighs later.”

Her fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt. Hips tilted invitingly as Jamal groaned deeper.

“Deeper now, love. Show these kings how a cheater atones, and whisper between breaths why my hotwife life starts with your total surrender.”

Matt interrupted his strokes and sucks, pulled Jamal from his face, “Wait? What’s a hotwife? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb, Matthew,” she purred. “A hotwife is what I become when your little infidelity unlocks my freedom.” She glanced at Jamal, the back to Matt. “You wanted to open our marriage without permission? Now you’ll watch me be shared with your blessing. But first, more atonement. I don’t think we’ve really started.”

She leaned back to grab a sleek, black shopping bag at the foot of the sofa. It had a large glossy Swat! logo that caught the lamplight. She retrieved a large, unopened box of condoms and a bottle of clear lubricant.

“This is for the main event, baby.” She placed them on the coffee table beside her with deliberate flourish. “Open it, Matthew. Let’s see if you even recognize what real men need.”

Matt’s trembling fingers struggled with the thick plastic packaging. A soft, flirty laugh escaped Brittany’s lips. “They’re called ‘King’s Guard’ sweetheart. Made for girth like theirs, not your little curved five-inch worm.”

Jamal stepped closer, his massive cock rested heavily against Matt’s forehead as he finally tore the foil. The condom unfolded larger than anything he’d seen before.

“Now, roll it on him, nice and slow. Make sure it’s snug… we wouldn’t want any accidents while he teaches your ass its new purpose.”

Matt tried to steady himself as he unrolled the latex on Jamal’s shaft. He began losing sense of self… sense of control. This was the real beginning of his surrender and reparation.

Once Jamal was sheathed, Brittany tapped Matt’s shoulder. “On your feet, hubby. Let’s get you fully undressed for your debut.”

Matt stood, totally self-conscious. He began mindlessly unbuttoning his dress shirt. Brittany impatiently unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped his trousers. They thudded to the floor.

Her fingers lingered on Matt’s flushed skin. She could feel the humiliating tremble that ran through him.

“There we go… now stand good and tall for me.” She guided Matt to face Jamal. Their bodies close in the warm, charged air. She positioned Matt by gently tilting his hips forward until the tips of their cocks touched. Jamal’s thick, veined monster loomed over Matt’s small exposed penis. “Oh, my heart…” she singed dramatically, her hand rested on Matt’s lower back. “Look at that difference. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? How something so perfect and huge exists while you’re just… this.”

The men chuckled softly. Their eyes drank in the comparison.

Brittany reached for the lube. Popped the cap with a soft click. “Now, bend over the arm of the sofa, baby. Let’s get you ready to take what you’ve earned.” She drizzled the cool gel over her fingers. Pressed them against his tight entrance. Worked in slow, teasing circles. “You wanted to fuck around… now feel what it’s like to be the one getting stretched open.” Her other hand stroked his back soothingly. “Keep those eyes on me, Matthew. And remember to thank him with every thrust.”

Her eyes locked on his with vengeful fire as her fingers circled Matt’s virgin-tight ring with the cool lube drizzle and slick invasion. His small cock twitched pathetically below. She withdrew her fingers with a wet pop. Matt could smell the lube’s faint citrus mixed with his own body’s tang.

Jamal stepped behind Matt’s bent form. Broad hands splayed his hips wide over the sofa arm. The condom’s latex sheen brushed his cleft first with a teasing drag that made Matt’s breath hitch. Muscles clenched instinctively against the inevitable.

“Breathe for it, baby,” Brittany husked. Her nails raked his spine in soothing fire-trails. “Feel every millimeter claim what your cheating stole. Thicker than your fist, longer than your shame.”

Jamal’s hips canted forward fed inch by merciless inch. The burn twisted into impossible fullness that hollowed Matt’s core. Prostate ignited sparks that flew up his spine amid the psychological gut-punch of utter surrender.

Matt’s mind fractured. His arrogance dissolved into whimpered awe. The realization crashed that Jamal’s girth would rewrite him forever. His arousal coiled traitorous around humiliation as Jamal bottomed out, balls slapped home with a meaty thud.

Brittany’s hand fisted Matt’s hair, yanked his gaze to hers. “Thank him now, Matthew. Moan how his cock owns you… deeper… every thrust is your vow renewed in ruin.” Her free hand dipped to toy her satin-damp pussy.

“Thank you, Sir,” Matthew breathed heavy.

Fingers found soaked satin clinging to her folds. She rubbed her clit slowly. The sight of her husband’s submission ignited a feral heat low in her belly. “Mmm, you’re making me so wet, baby… watching you get railed like the cuck you deserve to be.”

Tyrone chuckled from the couch. His massive hand pumped rhythmically, while Malaki’s eyes locked on her teasing fingers.

“Keep those eyes on me, just like the rules… moan for me how this makes my hotwife dreams come true.”

Jamal picked up the pace. His hips snapped with controlled power that rocked Matt’s body forward. The sofa creaked beneath the rhythm.

Marcus shifted closer. His cologne wafted strong. Matt felt a further break inside him. He found himself staring longingly with full-on lust at Marcus’s monstrosity. He glanced up at Brittany. She could totally read his mind.

“Oh baby, I see it… that desperate need blooming in you.” Her fingers delved deeper into her slick satin as the air kissed her exposed thighs. “You want to worship Marcus, too. Stretch that little guilty mouth around him while Jamal owns your ass. Such a greedy little cheater, craving both ends filled with what you could never provide.”

Marcus slid closer and grinned wolfishly. His musky warmth enveloped Matt’s face as Jamal’s thrust slapped him forward with a wet, building cadence. Matt’s nose bumped up against Marcus’s cock head.

“May I?” Matt asked. He couldn’t believe his want.

“Go on, love. Open for him. Show me how a reformed cuck multitasks his punishment. Sucking Marcus deep while thanking Jamal between thrusts for making you feel so utterly inferior.” She rose from her perch, skirt hiked higher to let her fingers glide freely. A soft moan escaped her as she circled to Matt’s side. Her black-tipped nails raked lightly down Marcus’s thigh in a flirty invitation.

“That’s my cheating slut, surrendering completely. Imagine how hot it’ll be when I ride one next. Your tongue cleaning the mess you helped prepare.”

Jamal growled approval. His grip tightened on Matt’s hips as he drove deeper. The condom’s sheen caught the light with each plunge.

“Mmmm, look at those pleading eyes light up. Fluff him good, Matthew. Get Marcus slick.”

Malaki and Tyrone lean in from the sectional. Their strokes synced with the symphony of grunts and creaks. The air thick with cologne, lube, and Brittany’s rising arousal.

“Deeper with both, baby. Eye contact with me. Moan how this double stuffing seals my hotwife fate. My pussy aching just watching your total beautiful breakdown.”

Marcus threads fingers into Matt’s hair. Firmly guided his cock down Matt’s throat.

Matt’s eyes wept as he maintained eye contact with Brittany. He moaned around Marcus’s shaft. Gagged.

Surprisingly, complete surrender came easily to Matt. The reluctance he felt earlier had entirely dissipated, replaced with a newly discovered hunger. A want he’d never experienced before. He longed to be completely used by these men in his penance for his adultery.

Brittany savored the obscene symphony of Matt’s muffled moans that vibrated around Marcus’s girth. The wet gluck of his gag echoed off the living room walls where their framed wedding photo tilted slightly from the sofa’s rhythmic creak. Jamal’s powerful hips drove forward with slick, latex-sheathed insistence that made Matt’s body jolt deliciously.

“Mmm, listen to that, baby… your throat claiming him while your ass yields to Jamal’s dominance. It’s such a perfect picture.” Her fingers danced over her swollen clit. “You’re glowing now, Matthew, that twisted spark of surrender lighting your eyes even as drool slicks your chin.”

Marcus groaned low. His thighs tensed under her trailing black-tipped nails. He pumped eagerly into Matt’s mouth while Jamal’s grunts began to build.

“Let’s elevate this punishment, loves.” She nodded to them with her flirty command. “We need to adjust my cheating husband to accommodate all of you fine gentlemen.” She tapped Matt’s back. “Let’s move you to the coffee table, baby.” She stood up, as Jamal and Marcus removed their slick shafts from Matt’s body.

“Here, lay on your back,” she helped Matt move. He was lost in a complete haze. She positioned him on the coffee table. “There, that’s better. Easier access.” She grabbed pillows and placed them under his ass and head. “There we go.”

“Malaki, Tyrone, step up and claim those cheating, wandering hands of his,” she ordered.

Malaki’s veined monster brushed Matt’s left palm first. Tyrone’s heavy shaft slapped warmly into his right.

Jamal repositioned Matt, hoisted his hips higher. Marcus readjusted to feed Matt from above.

“Grip them tight, baby. Stroke those kings in sync with how they spit-roast owning you. Feel how they throb bigger, hotter than your little dick ever dreamed.” Her free hand joined Matt’s on Tyrone briefly, guided his rhythm with a romantic squeeze. Her pulse raced at the sight of all four bulls orbiting her husband for total use.

“Imagine my lips on yours after, tasting their essence from your tongue. A romantic redemption, isn’t it?” The vanilla candle’s flicker danced over sweat-beaded torsos. “Keep moaning around Marcus, baby. Tell me with your eyes how stroking Malaki and Tyrone seals you as my forever cuck. Hands full of what I’ll ride next.”

Matt’s erection reached into the void of want. So desperate to be touched. It throbbed and leaked. Matt began to feel a sensation he’d never experienced. A slight shaking in his core. A flood of warmth and nerve endings alight with pleasure. A tremble rippled throughout his body as Jamal pounded his prostate.

Brittany leaned over the coffee table’s edge, “Oh baby, here you are… spread wide like the fucking slut you were born to be. Jamal in your ass and with each thrust, you arch beautifully while Marcus kneels to feed your moaning mouth.” Her nails trailed feather-light on Matt’s heaving chest. She sensed how hungry Matt was for her touch. She circled his cock without granting the mercy of contact.

Copious precum pooled warm on Matt’s stomach like a testament to his unraveling. “Look at this desperate little thing, screaming silently for touch it doesn’t deserve amid all these superior cocks. It’s almost endearing, really, how it weeps for the prostate bliss Jamal’s unlocking in you.” She noticed the rippled shudders through Matt’s surrender. “That’s it, Matthew, give way to that wondrous feeling.”

Maliki and Tyrone closed in from the sides. Their throbbing lengths slapped hot into Matt’s palms as he instinctively gripped and stroked. Brittany swiped up some of Matt’s precum and slicked Maliki’s cock with it. “Pump them firmer, love. Match Jamal’s building pace that’s got you trembling on that exquisite edge. Feel how your first prostate orgasm crashes closer, so much richer than your old solo climaxes ever were.”

She perched on the sofa’s arm, her skirt fully hiked to let her soaked satin gleam in the light. Four fingers sank into her slick folds. “Mmm, I love watching your undoing.”

Jamal growled deep as his hips ground Matt’s spot relentlessly. Sweat beaded on Matt’s chiseled torso while Marcus thrusted with teasing control.

“You’re so close Matthew, that untouched orgasm bubbling up purely from black cock mastery. Don’t you dare cum yet without begging these gods first!” Her free hand squeezed Matt’s as he stroked Tyrone. “Imagine, spilling hands-free. This is all brand new for you baby. And you’re doing amazingly well. I’m so proud of you.”

Maliki’s musk sharpened as he bucked into Matt’s fist.

“Hold it, baby… ride that edge. Jamal’s owning you so deep, unlocking waves no fumbling handjob ever could.” Her nails skimmed Matt’s heaving ribs. Dipped through the warm slick that pooled on his skin. Her breath hitched as Matt’s strokes on Maliki and Tyrone quickened with frantic need.

“Beg them now, muffled around Marcus. Plead for their release to baptize your cheating soul.” His hands pumped those veined monsters like lifelines to her hotwife rebirth.

Jamal snarled first. Hips slammed final, brutal depths before he stilled with a roar. He flooded the King’s Guard condom in thick ropes that ballooned it against Matt’s clenched walls. Latex heat radiated throughout Matt. As Jamal pulled out, a slow, slick trail gleamed.

“Oh, god! Look at that load Matthew. So much superior seed wasted on protection just for your debut… but not wasted on us.” She snatched the condom off Jamal with filthy reverence. Knotted the base before she knelt to pinch Matt’s jaw open. She poured the warm, creamy flood straight onto his waiting tongue. “Swallow every drop, love. Taste how real men mark their territory. Romantic fuel for the cuck you’ve become.”

Marcus followed seconds later, groaning as he stroked and sent ropes of silvery white over Matt’s waiting lips. He shoved his pulsing cock down Matt’s cum coated throat. Held there and spasmed.

This scene sent both Tyrone and Maliki over the edge toward their own peaks. Their hot spurts arced across Matt’s chest in sticky webs.

“Mmmm, such a canvas of atonement… now watch this, baby.” She unraveled Jamal’s used condom. Its vast, cum-heavy sheath dwarfed Matt’s little five-inches. She rolled the condom over him with deliberate slowness. The latex swallowed him whole like a limp secret in an oversized glove. “Pathetic, isn’t it? How it engulfs your little upward bend completely, with a ton of room to spare for what it was built to cradle. You’re just lost in there. Forgotten and drooling excess.”

Tyrone chucked from above. His spent length brushed Matt’s lips.

“Edge harder for me now. Stroke your little pathetic cock, swimming lost in that latex suited for superior men.” She guided Matt’s hand to his throbbing erection. “Tell these kings how feeding you Jamal’s gift makes you ache to worship my pussy next. Cleaned and ready.”

The latex sloshed softly with each stroke. Brittany swung a leg over Matt’s face with fluid grace. She pulled her soaked satin panties aside and lowered her dripping folds onto his eager mouth. His tongue dove in with a hunger he’d never felt.

“Mmmm, yes, worship your wife’s cunt like the devoted cuck we’ve forged you into. Taste how wet your punishment has made me.” She beckoned the gentlemen closer with a flirty curl of her finger.

Jamal stepped up first as she leaned forward to swirl her tongue around his softening girth. She sucked clean every trace of lube and essence with teasing hums that vibrated through her grinding hips. “God, you’re perfect.”

Marcus followed, his veined length twitched as she deep throated the remnants with a moan. Her clit pulsed against Matt’s nose while waves began to build low in her belly. Her thighs quivered on the coffee table’s glassy chill.

Tyrone and Maliki pressed in next. Her lips traded between their heavy shafts. Polished them glossy with devoted swirls and swallows. The room pulsed with their low groans, synced to her rising cries.

Her orgasm hit hard. She flooded Matt’s mouth in a shuddering release. Her hips bucked wildly against his face. “Fuck! Baby! You unlocked that so beautifully. Drink every drop of my revenge.”

Matt shuddered in a mind blowing orgasm that, sadly, no one seemed to notice.

She lifted off him slowly. Her legs trembled as she stood and extended a hand. She pulled up her used husband from the table with affectionate firmness. His body slick and spent.

“Come here, my useless cheater. Let us taste what’s mingled on your tongue.” She crushed her lips to his in a deep, devouring kiss. Shared the creamy fusion with swirling hunger. Her curves pressed flush while the men’s eyes burned approvingly.

She pulled back from their deep kiss slowly, her lips lingered on his with a soft, romantic nip. They both tasted mingled essences as the lamplight bathed bodies in their golden afterglow.

“Mmmm, baby, that was everything. Your total surrender hit me harder than any revenge that I plotted. You took it all so beautifully, Matthew. From Jamal’s flood to my grinding bliss. My perfect, broken cheater reborn.”

She guided Matt to the sofa. Curled her curves against him. “You’ve earned this pause, my romantic cuck. Whisper if you want water or wipes, or just hold me while we bask. The kings can wait their next turns.”

Tyrone passed a cool cloth to Brittany with a wink. She dabbed it gently against Matt’s chest and stomach; cleaned him with tender care.

“Am I forgiven?” Matt looked deep into Brittany’s eyes.

“Forgiven? Oh, baby, forgiveness isn’t a single word. It’s etched in every gag you took. Every stroke of those superior cocks you worshipped tonight.” Her thigh draped possessively over his while Jamal gave an approving gaze. “You’ve atoned so sweetly, Matthew, that it unlocked doors within you that you never knew existed.”

She placed a romantic kiss to his collarbone. “Feel how my heart races still, my love. This hotwife throne that your infidelity helped to build will reign eternal now. Your little cock forgotten in the shadow of kings.”

Maliki chuckled softly from the sectional as he passed Matt a bottle of water.

“But you’re not fully forgiven… not yet… my little cheater.”