Fifteen years of marriage, and not once have I thrust my wife into the abyss of pleasure with my cock. My fingers gliding over her velvety skin, awakening the fine hairs, my tongue tasting her sweet, salty nectar, teasing her throbbing pearl with torturous devotion, or toys that sent her body into trembling ecstasy—none of that was ever a barrier. But my cock? At best mediocre, a limp warrior that barely lasted two breaths in her tight, wet heat before surrendering. Bringing her to climax with my manhood was a dream that faded in the darkness of my inadequacy. Natascha, my wife, assured me in her soft, comforting tone that she lacked for nothing, her lips brushing my forehead as she gently shook her head at my offer to let other men into her bed. Yet the years gnawed at her—early forties, her skin still taut but kissed by fine lines—and since I was her first and only, a yearning burned within her, a molten desire simmering beneath her skin like lava, craving something bigger, wilder, unknown.

Sometimes her insecurity surfaced like a delicate veil—while walking, she’d ask me with wide, shimmering eyes if she seemed strange, feeling the gazes that clung to her. Her hips swayed unconsciously, her scent—a hint of vanilla and woman—drawing attention. I whispered that the women paled with envy, their lips curling in jealousy, while the men devoured her with raw, animalistic hunger, their fantasies flickering in their eyes. So I began sending her nude photos of men—bodies carved from marble, skin glistening with sweat, muscles dancing under every play of light. I paired them with words that grazed her skin like hot breath:

“This one wants your mouth, wants to feel your soft lips wrap around his hard, throbbing cock before taking you with brutal lust.”

“This one wants to grab you from behind, dig his nails into your quivering flesh, possess you like a predator, pressing your moans into the sheets.”

“This one wants to come between your full, sweat-slick breasts, spilling his hot desire over your cleavage as you gasp.”

“This one wants to take you in the cramped H&M fitting room, hike up your dress, slide his fingers into your wet slit, stifling your whimpers behind the thin curtain.”

“This one wants to bind your wrists and ankles to the bedposts, mark your skin with ropes, render you helpless so he can explore every trembling inch of your body with his tongue, his hands, his cock.”

“This one wants to fuck you so deep and mercilessly that you scream his name into the night, your body writhing, your pussy pulsing with pleasure.”

“This one wants to shatter you with ecstasy until you beg him to drag you back into the whirlpool of surrender again and again.”

“This one wants to drive you to at least two orgasms, hear your screams, watch your thighs tremble, before spilling himself hot and pulsing into your greedy depths.”

“This one wants to take you in our marital bed before my eyes, make your body buck beneath him, your moans filling my ears as I watch.”

I mixed in pictures of wives whose skin glowed with foreign lust, their eyes sparkling with betrayal, and others who humiliated their husbands with sweet cruelty. I expected her to stop me, but she stayed silent, her eyelids heavy, her breaths deep, as if each line were a spark igniting within her. One evening, as I kneaded her delicate feet—my fingers sliding over her soft soles, the TV humming in the background, her engrossed in her phone—she held an image up to me: a massive black cock, veins pulsing beneath smooth, taut skin, the tip gleaming with power. Her voice was a soft, trembling whisper: “Sometimes I wonder how a monster like that would feel inside me, how it could stretch me until I don’t know where I end.” My heart raced, and I sent her pictures of women riding such titanic cocks—their bodies arching, sweat dripping from their breasts, their mouths opening in silent screams of ecstasy.

Weeks later, we lay in bed, her fingers dancing over my cock—a slow, tormenting stroke, her nails grazing the sensitive skin—when she asked if my offer to share her still stood. My little cock twitched in her hand, growing rock-hard, pulsing under her warm fingers, a bead of lust seeping out. She said nothing had changed for her, that she missed nothing, but her voice quivered with longing, her eyes glowing like embers. “My curiosity won,” she breathed, “I want to know what a huge cock feels like inside me, how it fills me, what it’s like to be taken by a stranger—just this once.” Her lips brushed my ear, her breath hot: “If you’re unsure, that’s okay.” I gasped, assured her my offer stood, and added in a rough, breaking voice that I wanted to see her come on another man’s cock—her lips parted, her breasts bouncing, her body slick with sweat and shuddering with pleasure. She kept stroking me, her fingers sliding over my shaft, slick with my desire, and when I confessed how much I wanted it, I erupted—my seed spurting in hot, wild bursts over her hands, dripping onto the sheets, an animalistic sound escaping my throat. She laughed—a deep, sensual sound that vibrated through my bones—wiped her sticky fingers on my chest, her scent mingling with mine, and remarked with a mischievous grin: “It couldn’t be more obvious how much that turns you on.” Uncertainty flickered in her eyes—whether my gaze might inhibit her, whether she could let go—but she agreed, her voice a sweet vow: “Find me men online, show them to me.”

I already had someone in mind: Olu Shango, a black master whose body gleamed like obsidian, muscles rippling beneath his skin, a man who radiated dominance like heat. He loved breaking white couples, uncovering their deepest desires, turning them into his playthings. We’d chatted, and I’d sent him nude photos of Natascha—her breasts full and firm in soft light, her hips invitingly curved, her slit glistening with arousal. He’d woven her into his essays, words like whip-cracks describing her lust. I wrote him that she was ready, asked for pictures for her. He was eager to fuck her, had fantasized about her body for months—spreading her thighs, inhaling her scent, swallowing her screams as he made her his whore. I’d told him she described herself as submissive, something she could never explore with me—my weakness had bound her. Now he offered to dominate her, to teach her to make me her doormat, his words a sinful promise coursing through my veins. We’d have to obey his commands without hesitation, without question. His demands were relentless: No more sex with my wife—her pussy should drip with longing, her thighs tremble, her body starved. I’d have to wear a cock cage, my dick locked away, the keys in her trembling hands as her desire grew. He lived in London, and I was to arrive caged, unable to remove it, and leave just as confined—a slave to her lust and his power. At the weekend’s end, Natascha would decide whether to take the keys or leave them with him—a game that twisted my guts. I agreed, showed her his pictures—his athletic frame, his cock like a dark spear, thick and throbbing—and her eyes widened, her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as she saw his power. How could I blame her? He was as tall as me but stronger, younger—her age, while I’m fourteen years older—his cock a promise to split her in ways I never could. We set a date, asked the grandparents to watch the kids, and booked a flight and hotel: a suite for the lust—walls to catch her screams—and a single room for me, where I’d spend Saturday night while Master Shango took my wife alone, her body trembling beneath him, her moans tearing through the night.