Chloe

​When he comes to the house, he treats me like property. He doesn't care about my comfort or my well-being. If he wants to spit on my face, he does, and I take it, keeping my eyes open to show him my absolute obedience. He demands total dominance, and I give him free rein to do whatever he wants to my body, no matter how dirty or demeaning it is.

​He’s even taken it to a level where he wants to document my humiliation. He’ll order me onto my knees, face down on our carpet, forcing me to spread myself completely open for his camera. He does it just for fun—just to have the photos and the memories of how easily he can break me. Those pictures are saved on my phone right now, locked away in a secure, hidden folder. My husband, of course, has never seen them. He has no idea that the phone sitting on our nightstand contains a digital gallery of his wife being utterly ruined in the home we built together.

​The obedience doesn't stop when my lover isn't in the room, either. It rules me 24/7.

​Once, on a morning before we had planned a midday meeting at my house, my phone buzzed. It was a text from him, demanding a picture of what belonged to him, right there and then.

​I was lying in our bed, and my husband was asleep right next to me. The risk was suffocating, but my lover's command was absolute. Without hesitating, I slowly slid the heavy duvet down. I exposed my bare breasts—the breasts my husband believes belong only to him—and positioned the camera. I took the photo, framing it perfectly so my naked tits were in the foreground, while my sleeping husband’s face was clearly visible in the background, completely oblivious.

​First, he had me bent flat over the wood, face pressed to the polished surface while he drilled me from behind. He didn’t care about being gentle; he just wanted to claim me right where my husband sits. But that wasn't enough. He pulled me up and sat me right on the edge of the table. I sat there with my legs spread wide open, totally exposed, with my wedding ring staring right back at me. He stepped between my thighs, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and yanked my head down. He forced me to watch. He made me look right at the spot where he was slamming into me, watching him ruin, violate, and stretch out my married pussy.

​Watching him do that to me, while my scalp burned from him pulling my hair, was a massive rush. He used me like a toy until he went stiff and dumped his load deep inside me.

​I slip into the bedroom, and there he is, dead to the world. So predictable. So completely unaware that the woman crawling into bed isn't just his wife. I don’t waste time. I nudge him awake, and the moment he stirs, I’m grinding down. I grab his hair, hard, yanking his head back to anchor him as I force myself down, pushing as deep and as hard as I can. I make sure his entire face is slick with me—not just his mouth, but his cheeks, his nose, covering him in the mess I’ve dragged back from that dark, crowded after-party.

​I can still hear their voices, the way they laughed at me, calling me a whore even as they saw the wedding ring glinting on my finger. They didn't care. They passed me around, spitting insults, slamming into me, and coating me in their filth—cum dripping down my thighs, smeared across my belly, soaking into the gold band on my hand. They treated me like absolute garbage, and I loved every second of the degradation.❤️

​We didn’t talk; we didn’t plan. We just left, moving through the cold night air until we reached a hotel room. It was raw, immediate, and utterly reckless. He didn't care about anything—not my ring, not my life back home. He just used me. He took me in ways that made my head spin, leaving me feeling hollowed out and completely unraveled by the time I walked back out into the street.

​The next morning, the embarrassment was a physical weight. I felt small, dirty, and terrified of what I’d done. I kept looking at my hands, at the wedding ring, trying to remember who I was before I walked into that room. But as the hours passed, the shame began to curdle into something else. The memory of being used—of being an object of pure desire, stripped of every role I usually played—started to drive me insane.

​The moment I catch a glimpse, it’s instantaneous—my body betrays me before my brain can even catch up. I’m dripping, soaking the fabric of my underwear, an immediate, reflexive response to the sheer scale of what I’m seeing. I can’t stop myself; my hand is already down there, fingers finding that slick, desperate heat. I lean back, eyes drifting shut, and the world outside this room just dissolves.

​I’m lost in the daydream, trapped in the fantasy of being completely violated by those dark, heavy lengths. I imagine being pinned down, helpless, as they take turns stretching me, tearing through my boundaries until I’m wide open and trembling. I’m picturing them dominating me, mocking my marriage while they dismantle my insides, filling me with a force that feels like it’s breaking me apart from the inside out.

​I thrive on the humiliation. I love the sting of a slap to the face, the feeling of spit dripping down my skin, and the way they ruin my makeup without a second thought. They treat me like a toy they’ve already broken, and it turns me on more than anything else in the world. I still remember the night a group of them laughed as they jammed a Corona bottle inside me, using me for their own twisted entertainment—and I didn't care. I loved the violation of it.