Last night, I drowned in a dream so visceral, so fucking electric, it’s seared into my soul. It was our 15th wedding anniversary, and I’d dragged Natascha—my shy, curvy, maddeningly gorgeous wife—into the pulsing heart of an erotic club, a den of sweat and sin. I’d handed her a stack of vouchers, each one a filthy promise scrawled in my own handwriting, and her fingers shook as she clutched them, her hazel eyes darting between fear and a spark of something darker. When I leaned in, my breath hot against her ear, and offered her the chance to fuck in a room where strangers could leer through grimy little windows, her lips quivered. She nodded—slow, deliberate, her chest heaving—and I felt my cock twitch, a tidal wave of pride, lust, and dread crashing through me.
We perched at the bar, the air thick with the stench of arousal—leather, booze, and the faint tang of sex drifting from the shadowed corners. Natascha was a vision in the outfit I’d picked: a wet-look dress so tight it molded to her like liquid sin, the glossy black fabric clinging to her heavy breasts, the flare of her hips, the soft mound of her ass. It rode up just enough to flash the garters biting into her thick thighs, black lace against creamy skin, and her stiletto heels stabbed the floor with every nervous shift. She gripped a Long Island Iced Tea, the glass sweating as much as she was, ice rattling as she downed it too fast, her throat working hard to swallow the burn. The mask she’d demanded—black lace, intricate as a spiderweb—hid her face, but I knew her well enough to see the flush creeping up her neck, the way her breath hitched. My shy Natascha, liquored up and teetering on the edge of something wild. I slid my hand up her thigh, feeling the heat radiating from her core, and she pressed into me, her body begging for courage.
We were easing into the chaos—my fingers tracing the seam of her garter, her tongue darting out to lick the salt from her lips—when he strode up. A black titan, a goddamn mountain of muscle and menace, his bald head shining under the flickering lights, his skin glistening like oiled obsidian. He wore tight black shorts that hugged a bulge so obscene it was hypnotic, and a shirt stretched to breaking across his barrel chest. He ordered a whiskey, his voice a gravelly quake, then turned to Natascha, pinning her with eyes that burned. “I couldn’t help but notice you staring at the bulge in my pants,” he rumbled, leaning close enough for her to smell the spice of his cologne. “Wanna see what’s making it?”
Her gasp was audible, a sharp little sound that hit me like a punch. Beneath the mask, I knew her face was flaming—cheeks red, eyes wide—but she couldn’t hide from me. She flicked her gaze my way, her mouth opening to stammer a refusal, but I grinned, my heart slamming against my ribs, and nodded. Go ahead, baby. She turned back to him, mute, and gave the tiniest nod, a surrender that set my blood on fire. He didn’t hesitate—hooked his thumbs in his shorts and yanked them down, unleashing his cock. Even soft, it was a fucking monster—thick as her wrist, long enough to hang heavy between his thighs, the dark skin smooth and unmarred. Natascha’s breath stopped, her chest frozen, and I saw it: raw, unfiltered want flickering in her eyes, a hunger she’d buried deep.
“Wanna touch it?” he growled, daring her. She didn’t check with me this time—her hands shot out, trembling, and wrapped around him. Her pale fingers looked tiny against his girth, stroking the velvety skin, tracing the veins that pulsed as he hardened. Under her touch, it grew—swelling, lengthening, a beast waking up. She gasped again, louder, her lips parting as her thumbs brushed the flared head, already leaking a bead of precum. It was porn-star huge, the kind she’d gape at on screen when she thought I wasn’t watching, and now it was in her hands, shimmering like polished mahogany in the club’s sleazy glow. My cock throbbed painfully in my jeans, jealousy and arousal twisting into a knot I couldn’t unravel.
“You’re wondering how this cock would feel buried deep in that tight little pussy, aren’t you, woman?” His voice was a predator’s purr, and Natascha whimpered—a weak, needy “Yes” that ripped me open. “And you want it inside you right now, don’t you?” he pressed, relentless. “Yes,” she breathed again, the word spilling out before she could stop it. She snapped her head to me, panic flashing behind the mask, but I just smirked, my throat dry, my dick leaking. “You’ve got the ‘carte blanche’ voucher,” I rasped, nodding toward her. “Cash it in.” “But you…” she faltered, her voice cracking. “Your husband watches,” the stranger cut in, his tone final, and grabbed her hand—big, rough, engulfing hers—and hauled her toward a room.
She followed, her heels clicking a frantic beat, her ass swaying in that dress like a siren’s call. I stumbled after them, my legs weak, and claimed a voyeur booth, the air inside stale with sweat and anticipation. The one-way mirror framed them perfectly: Natascha, my wife, stepping into a cage of lust. He locked the door with a heavy thud, and the room was his kingdom. He stripped fast—shorts and shirt hitting the floor, revealing a body carved from midnight: pecs like slabs, abs rippling, thighs bulging with power. His cock jutted out, a glistening spear, and he gripped Natascha’s shoulders, then her head, shoving her down with a force that made her yelp. She dropped to her knees, the dress hiking up to bare her ass, the garters snapping taut, her panties soaked through.
She stared at his cock—now rock-hard, veins throbbing, the head slick and swollen—then lunged forward, her mouth stretching wide to take him. Her hands worked him too, one pumping the shaft, the other kneading his balls, heavy and tight in her grip. He groaned, deep and guttural, and seized her head, fucking her mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts. She gagged hard, spit drooling down her chin, her throat bulging as he pushed deeper, but she didn’t pull back—her nails raked his ass, dragging him closer, her muffled moans vibrating around him. I stared, gutted. Natascha never sucked me off—said it wasn’t her thing—but here she was, choking on this stranger’s cock like a pro, her lips stretched obscenely, her tongue flicking out to lap at his precum. Had she been practicing with those massive black dildos I’d found, slick with lube, tucked in her nightstand? The image burned me alive—rage, shame, and a sick, desperate need warring inside me.
He yanked her up after a minute, her lips swollen and wet, and tore at her clothes. The dress peeled off with a sticky rasp, exposing her tits—full, bouncing, nipples hard as bullets—and he ripped her bra away, letting them spill free. Her panties clung to her pussy, drenched and translucent, and he shredded them too, leaving her bare except for the garters and heels. He snatched the mask off last, tossing it aside. “I want your husband to see every fucking twitch on your face when you cum on my cock,” he snarled. Natascha didn’t fight—her eyes were glassy, her breaths ragged—as he shoved her onto the bed, face-down, ass up, her head pointed at the mirror. At me.
He climbed behind her, his hands—massive, calloused—spreading her ass wide, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, brushing her puckered hole. She jolted, a high-pitched whine escaping her, as he dragged his cock through her folds, the head smearing her juices, teasing her clit until it swelled. She clawed the rubber sheets, her moans raw and animalistic, her hips grinding back against him. One hand snaked up to maul her tit, fingers twisting the nipple until she keened, the pain and pleasure twisting her face into something unrecognizable—something I’d never given her. “Tell me your name before I wreck this pussy,” he demanded, his voice a thunderclap. “Tascha,” she sobbed, her body quaking. He grinned, feral, and slammed into her—his cock splitting her open, stretching her cunt until she screamed, the sound ripping through the room.
She was tight—I knew that—but he didn’t care, pounding her with brutal, relentless strokes, his balls slapping her clit, her juices dripping down her thighs. Her pussy lips clung to him, stretched thin, and every thrust sent a shockwave through her flesh, her ass jiggling, her tits swaying. I watched her face—my Natascha—dissolve into pure, filthy ecstasy: eyes rolling back, mouth slack, drool pooling on the sheets. I’d never made her feel this—my average dick, my pathetic stamina, always leaving her wanting. Guilt clawed at me, but my cock was iron-hard, precum soaking my boxers as I watched him claim her.
She was close—I could see it, her body tensing, her moans turning to shrieks—when he pulled out, his cock dripping, leaving her gaping. “No, fuck, no!” she wailed, thrashing, her pussy clenching on nothing. “Please, keep going!” He loomed over her, sweat rolling down his chest, and growled, “Tell me what you need, Tascha.” “Fuck me,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Louder, you needy slut!” “FUCK ME, FUCK ME HARD, PLEASE!” she shrieked, and he rammed back in, splitting her wide, his hips a blur. She clawed the bed, her nails tearing the sheets, her reflection a portrait of depravity—sweat-slicked, flushed, her ass rippling under his assault.
He slowed again, bending to bite her ear, his cock pulsing inside her. “Who owns this pussy, you married whore?” She froze, and he stilled, torturing her. “You do,” she gasped, frantic. “You own my married pussy, Master!” He grinned, slamming into her again. “That’s right, bitch. This cunt’s mine now—no one else fucks it, touches it, breathes on it but me.” “Yes, Master,” she sobbed, lost. “You’re giving me your number—I’ll fuck you whenever I want.” “Yes, Master!” she screamed, and my world tilted. This wasn’t just a fantasy anymore—it was a fucking takeover, and I was powerless, my dick throbbing with every word.
She was on the edge again, her body convulsing, when he slowed to a crawl. “Please, Master,” she cried, tears streaking her face, her pussy fluttering around him. “Beg me,” he snarled. “I beg you…” she choked, her voice shredded. “Beg me for what, you cock-hungry bitch?” He yanked her hair, arching her back, his cock sinking deeper, her cunt stretched to its limit. “I BEG YOU TO CUM DEEP IN MY MARRIED PUSSY—FLOOD ME WITH YOUR FUCKING SEED!” she howled, and he lost it—roaring as he exploded, his cock jerking, pumping her full of thick, hot cum. Her womb took it all, unprotected, fertile, and she shattered—her orgasm a violent, shuddering storm, her screams echoing, her body bucking as she squirted, soaking the sheets, collapsing in a twitching, cum-drenched heap.
I woke up gasping, my boxers a swamp of cum, my cock still pulsing, my chest heaving. The dream clung to me like a second skin—every sound, every smell, every goddamn thrust etched into my brain. I was a cuckold, wrecked and reveling in it, my wife’s transformation into a hotwife no longer just a dream but a craving clawing at my guts. I turned to Natascha, sleeping beside me, her innocent face a lie against the slut I’d just watched her become. How long could I keep this buried before I begged her to make it real?
