Natascha stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her green eyes tracing the faint lines around them. At 45, her brown hair still fell in soft waves past her shoulders, and her body—curvy yet firm from years of quiet discipline—remained a secret she kept even from herself. She sighed, brushing her fingers across her neck, imagining a touch that lingered longer than Jo’s ever did.
Jo, her husband of 18 years, was asleep in their bed, his soft snores a reminder of another night cut short. At 59, his stamina had dwindled to a flicker. He’d climb atop her, his breaths quickening within minutes, and before Natascha could even feel the heat build, he’d shudder and collapse, muttering an apology. She’d smile, kiss his forehead, and say it was fine. But it wasn’t. It never had been. Jo had been her first—her only—and in all those years, she’d never felt the earth-shattering release she’d read about in novels or overheard in hushed giggles at the salon. Time was slipping through her fingers, and with it, a gnawing fear: had she missed something vital, something primal?
Beneath her quiet exterior, Natascha harbored a secret. She was submissive at heart, craving a hand to guide her, a voice to command her. But Jo, sweet and gentle, could never be that man. She’d buried that desire deep—until the day she met Olu Shango.
It happened on a crisp autumn afternoon, the kind Natascha rarely claimed for herself. She sat alone in a small, cozy café, her hands cradling a steaming latte, the faint hum of conversation around her a comforting blur. She was lost in thought, staring at the swirl of foam, when a shadow fell across her table. She glanced up, and there he was: Olu Shango, a towering man with skin like polished ebony, his bald head catching the soft glow of the pendant lights, his muscular frame barely contained by a fitted black shirt. His dark eyes met hers, intense and unyielding, and a slow, deliberate smile curved his lips.
“May I join you?” His voice was deep, resonant, carrying a quiet authority that made her pulse quicken. Before she could respond, he eased into the chair across from her, his presence commanding the space.
Natascha shifted in her seat, her fingers tightening around her mug. “Who are you?” she asked, her tone cautious but curious.
“Olu Shango,” he said simply, leaning back as if he had all the time in the world. “I’ve seen you here before. You sit alone, always with that look—like you’re waiting for something you can’t name. Why is that?”
Her brows furrowed, caught off guard by the question. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, though her voice wavered. “I just… I like the quiet. It’s a break from everything.”
“Everything?” he pressed, his gaze sharpening. “What’s ‘everything’ to you? Work? Family? A husband who doesn’t see you anymore?”
Natascha’s breath hitched. “That’s bold,” she said, a faint flush creeping up her neck. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know what I see,” Olu replied, his tone calm but piercing. “A woman who carries herself like she’s hiding something. Not from the world—from herself. Tell me, what’s missing in your life? What keeps you coming here, sitting alone, staring into that cup like it holds answers?”
She hesitated, her green eyes flickering with unease. “I’m not unhappy,” she said, more to convince herself than him. “I have a good life. A husband—Jo. We’ve been together 18 years. A house, a routine. It’s steady.”
“Steady,” he echoed, a hint of challenge in his voice. “Is steady what you want? Or is it just what you’ve settled for? Does he still look at you like you’re the only woman in the room? Does he touch you like he can’t get enough?”
Natascha’s mouth parted, words tangling in her throat. “He’s… he’s good to me,” she managed. “Gentle. Reliable. But…” She trailed off, her fingers brushing the rim of her mug. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s more. If I’ve missed something. He tries, but it’s quick, and I—I’ve never…” She stopped, cheeks burning, shocked at her own admission.
Olu leaned closer, his voice dropping to a velvet murmur. “Never what? Say it.”
“I’ve never… felt it,” she whispered, barely audible. “Not with him. Not like in books or movies. I don’t even know if it’s real.”
His eyes darkened, a possessive glint surfacing. “It’s real,” he said. “And you deserve it. That’s why I chose you, Natascha. I saw a woman starving beneath all that quiet grace. A woman who needs to be woken up. I can give you that—if you’re brave enough to take it.”
“I’m married,” she blurted, holding up her right hand, the gold band glinting like a feeble shield. Her voice trembled, but her eyes lingered on him, betraying her curiosity.
Olu’s smile widened, unperturbed. “I’m not asking you to leave him. Not yet. Just to have dinner with me. One night. Let me show you what you’ve been missing. No pressure—just a conversation, a meal. You decide what comes after.”
He slid a card across the table, his name and number scrawled in bold ink, then stood, his height casting a long shadow. “Think about it,” he said, and walked away, leaving her staring at the card, her heart pounding.
For days, Natascha wrestled with the invitation. She tucked the card into her purse, pulling it out during quiet moments—at the kitchen sink, in the bathroom mirror, late at night while Jo snored beside her. Dinner with Olu felt like a precipice, a step she couldn’t un-take. Jo’s gentle predictability was safe, familiar, but Olu’s words had cracked something open inside her. Starving beneath all that quiet grace. Was she? The ache she’d ignored for years gnawed louder now, a hunger she couldn’t name. She thought of Jo’s quick, apologetic fumbling, the way her body stayed cold even as he sighed in relief. Then she thought of Olu’s eyes, his voice, the promise of more. By Friday, her resolve wavered, then broke. She texted him: Dinner. Yes.
Olu took her to a dimly lit restaurant, all dark wood and flickering candles, where the air smelled of spice and possibility. He asked more questions over wine and steak—about her dreams as a girl, the things she’d sacrificed, the nights she lay awake wondering if this was all there was. She talked more than she ever had with Jo, her words spilling out as Olu listened, his attention a tether pulling her closer. When he suggested they go to his place after, she nodded, her pulse racing, knowing what it meant.
His apartment was sparse but warm, with a leather couch and a wide window overlooking the city. Olu didn’t rush her. He poured her a glass of red wine, his fingers brushing hers as he handed it over. “You’re nervous,” he said, standing close, his heat radiating. “Why?”
“I’ve never done this,” she admitted, sipping the wine to steady herself. “Cheated. Lied. Been… wanted like this.”
“You are wanted,” he said, stepping nearer, his hand lifting to cup her chin. His thumb traced her lower lip, sending a shiver through her. “You want this too. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” she breathed, trembling but certain.
“Then let me lead you.” He tilted her face up, kissing her slow and deep, his lips firm, tasting of wine and intent. She melted into it, her hands tentative on his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. “Kneel for me, Natascha.”
She sank to her knees, the hardwood cool against her skin, a thrill sparking in her core. He unzipped his jeans, revealing himself—thick, long, veins pulsing under dark skin, the head glistening. Her breath caught at his size, her mouth watering despite her inexperience. He guided her hands to his thighs, then her lips to his cock, his voice a low rumble: “Take it. Slow.”
She obeyed, her tongue darting out to taste him—salt and musk, a primal flavor that made her head spin. She wrapped her lips around the tip, sucking gently, then bolder, taking him deeper as he groaned, his hand threading into her brown waves. “Good girl,” he murmured, guiding her rhythm, his girth stretching her jaw. She gagged once, twice, but pushed on, eager to please, her panties soaking through as she felt him throb against her tongue.
He pulled her up, his hands firm on her arms, and kissed her again, tasting himself on her lips. “Bed,” he said, leading her to a room with a wide, unmade bed, the sheets dark and rumpled. He stripped her slowly, peeling off her blouse, her bra, her skirt, until she stood bare, her curvy body trembling under his gaze. His hands roamed—cupping her full breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked, tracing the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. “Beautiful,” he said, and she believed him.
He laid her on the bed, parting her thighs, his fingers finding her slick and ready. She gasped as he teased her clit, circling it with deliberate pressure, her hips bucking. “Please,” she whimpered, and he smiled, shedding his shirt to reveal a sculpted chest, then his jeans, his cock springing free again. He climbed over her, his weight pinning her, his skin hot against hers. He rubbed the head of his cock along her folds, coating himself in her wetness, then pressed in—slow, deliberate, stretching her inch by inch.
Natascha moaned, the burn of his size blending into a fullness she’d never known. He moved deeper, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading her wider, until he was buried to the hilt, his balls pressed against her ass. “Feel me,” he said, rocking gently at first, letting her adjust. She did—every ridge, every pulse, her walls clenching around him as he filled her completely.
Then he thrust, hard and steady, his hips slamming into hers, the bed creaking under them. Her breasts bounced with each stroke, her hands clutching the sheets, then his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. “Oh God,” she gasped, her voice breaking as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. He angled deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision blur, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts.
“Let go,” he commanded, his voice a growl against her ear, his breath hot on her neck. “Give it to me, Natascha.”
She did. The coil snapped, and her first orgasm on a man’s cock tore through her—a white-hot wave that started deep inside, radiating out in shudders that arched her back, curled her toes, and ripped a scream from her throat. It was raw, overwhelming, a release she’d chased in secret fantasies but never grasped. Her pussy spasmed around him, milking him, and she sobbed his name, tears spilling as her body shook, dependent on his strength to anchor her through it. For the first time, she understood—this was what she’d been missing, a primal awakening that rewrote her very sense of self.
Olu didn’t stop. He drove her through it, his thrusts relentless, drawing out her pleasure until she was a trembling mess, her second climax building fast on the heels of the first. “Again,” he demanded, and she obeyed, coming apart once more, her cries softer now, her body limp as he groaned, his own release flooding her, warm and thick, spilling out as he pulsed inside her.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her close, his arm heavy across her waist. She lay there, panting, her mind reeling, her body marked by him—inside and out. That first orgasm wasn’t just pleasure; it was a revelation, a door flung open to a part of her she’d buried. She was his now, irrevocably, and the Natascha who’d lived for Jo’s gentle predictability felt like a stranger.
From that first night in Olu Shango’s apartment, Natascha’s life splintered into two irreconcilable halves: the muted suburban existence with Jo, and the secret, pulsing world she shared with Olu. He didn’t rush her transformation; he savored it, testing her devotion over weeks with tasks that pushed her boundaries, each one a thread tightening his hold. Her orgasms—those earth-shattering releases she’d only known on his cock—became his currency, withheld until she proved her submission with tangible evidence.
It started small. One morning, Olu texted her: No panties under your dress today. Send me a photo from the grocery store. Natascha stood in her kitchen, staring at the message, her heart thudding. The idea felt filthy, a betrayal of the modest wife she’d been, but her body hummed with anticipation. She slipped off her underwear, the cool air against her bare skin a constant reminder of his command as she drove to the store. In the produce aisle, surrounded by oblivious shoppers, she angled her phone under her skirt, her fingers trembling as she snapped a shot of her exposed pussy, the lips glistening with her arousal. She sent it, her cheeks burning with shame and a twisted thrill. Good girl, he replied, and that night, he fucked her senseless, her orgasm crashing through her as she clung to him, his cock her lifeline.
The tasks escalated. A week later: Touch yourself in the bathroom while Jo’s home. Video it. She locked herself in the master bath, Jo’s soft snores filtering through the wall, and hiked up her nightgown. Her fingers circled her clit, slick with her own wetness, her breath hitching as she recorded the act—her face flushed, her eyes darting to the door, the naughtiness of it soaking her thighs. She sent the grainy clip, her heart pounding with the fear of being caught, and Olu’s response came swift: Perfect. That Friday, he bent her over his couch, his thick cock stretching her wide, and she came so hard she saw stars, her dependence deepening with every shudder.
Another time, he ordered her to wear a plug—a small, sleek toy he’d given her—during a dinner with Jo’s colleagues. Keep it in all night. Text me how it feels. She sat through the meal, the pressure in her ass a dirty secret, shifting in her seat as it pressed against her, her pussy throbbing with every smile she faked. She texted him in the bathroom: It’s tight. I’m wet. I feel so bad but so good. His reply: Proof. She sent a photo of the plug’s base peeking from between her cheeks, her fingers shaking, and the next day, he rewarded her, pinning her to his bed, his thrusts deep and punishing until she screamed, her orgasm a drug she couldn’t quit.
Over weeks, Natascha’s world shrank to Olu’s commands and the promise of his cock. She felt like a slut—his slut—reveling in the dirtiness of her double life. The shame of lying to Jo twisted into a perverse excitement, her body Pavlovian in its response to Olu’s texts. She’d check her phone obsessively, craving his next test, knowing only proof would unlock the release she now lived for. By the fourth week, she was hooked, her orgasms on his cock a tether she couldn’t—wouldn’t—break.
One night, Olu took her to a dimly lit club, the air thick with bass and sweat. His hand rested possessively on her thigh as he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Show me you’re mine,” he said, nodding toward a tall, broad-shouldered black man across the room—skin like midnight, his frame imposing in a tight shirt. “Fuck him. I’ll watch.”
Natascha’s stomach flipped, her wedding vows a faint echo, but Olu’s gaze silenced her doubts. She rose, her legs shaky in her heels, and followed the stranger to a back room, a cramped space with a sagging couch and peeling wallpaper. Olu trailed behind, settling into a chair by the door, his dark eyes glinting.
The man—Darius, he grunted his name—didn’t waste time. He pushed her against the wall, his hands rough as he hiked up her dress, exposing her soaked panties. “Eager, huh?” he muttered, yanking them down. She gasped, her eyes flicking to Olu, his approving nod fueling her arousal. Darius unzipped his pants, his cock springing free—thick, veined, not as long as Olu’s but heavy with intent. He spun her around, bending her over, her hands bracing against the grimy wall as he spread her legs.
He entered her in one hard thrust, her pussy stretching around him, the burn igniting her nerves. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips, slamming into her with a rhythm that rattled her bones. Natascha moaned, her body rocking with each stroke, but it was Olu’s stare that set her ablaze. His eyes bored into her, commanding her surrender, and the knowledge that he was watching—pleased, proud—pushed her over the edge. She came hard, her walls clenching around Darius’s cock, her cry echoing as pleasure ripped through her, amplified by Olu’s silent dominance. Darius grunted, finishing inside her with a shudder, his seed hot and thick, but it was Olu’s gaze that lingered in her mind as she slumped against the wall.
Back at his apartment, Olu rewarded her. He stripped her slow, kissing the marks Darius had left, then laid her on his bed. “You were perfect,” he said, his cock sliding into her still-dripping pussy, reclaiming her. He fucked her tender at first, then fierce, his hands pinning her wrists, her second orgasm that night a gift from him alone. She sobbed his name, her dependence sealed, her body and soul his to command.
A week later, Olu’s ambitions darkened. He texted her: Hotel room. Two men. You’ll do them both. I’ll watch. Natascha arrived at the sleek downtown suite, her nerves electric, wearing a black dress Olu had chosen—tight, low-cut, a signal of her purpose. Two strangers waited: one older, burly, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a cock like a battering ram; the other younger, lean, with a sly grin and a shaft that curved wickedly. Olu sat in an armchair by the window, his presence a silent decree.
“Strip,” the older man—Leon—barked, and she obeyed, her dress pooling at her feet, her body bare under their hungry stares. Leon took her first, pushing her onto the bed, her legs spread wide as he knelt between them. His cock stretched her painfully, then pleasurably, his thrusts deep and relentless, her breasts bouncing as he growled, “Fucking slut takes it good.” The younger one—Kai—watched, stroking himself, then joined, shoving his curved cock into her mouth. She gagged, saliva dripping down her chin, her hands clutching the sheets as they used her in tandem.
Olu never moved, his eyes locked on her, his stillness a leash tighter than any rope. Leon pounded her pussy, Kai fucked her throat, and the dual assault—raw, degrading—built a pressure she couldn’t fight. She came, her scream muffled around Kai’s cock, her pussy spasming as Leon laughed, smacking her thigh. The orgasm wasn’t just from their bodies; it was Olu’s gaze, his approval, that lit the fuse, her submission to him the true trigger. Kai finished next, flooding her mouth, and she swallowed, dazed, as Leon pulled out, painting her stomach with his release.
Olu rose only when they left, the room quiet but for her ragged breaths. Back at his apartment, he rewarded her again. He bathed her first, washing away their traces, then took her on his bed, his cock a slow, deliberate claim. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his thrusts building her to a peak only he could grant. She came clutching him, her orgasm a sacrament, her dependence absolute—every task, every stranger, every shudder now a thread in the web he’d woven around her soul.
Hiding it from Jo became a tightrope walk. She’d return home with excuses—late book club meetings, a friend’s crisis—her thighs still slick with another man’s seed. Jo noticed her new lingerie, her sudden confidence, but accepted her vague explanations. Once, he reached for her in bed, and she flinched, terrified he’d smell Olu on her skin. “Just tired,” she murmured, turning away.
Her secret life consumed her. Olu’s commands were her gospel, his cock her salvation. She’d kneel for him, ride him, let him take her ass while he whispered, “You’re my whore now.” Each orgasm bound her tighter, until the Natascha who’d loved Jo was a ghost, buried beneath the woman who lived for Olu Shango.
One evening, as she slipped on heels for another “appointment,” Jo’s voice stopped her cold. “Where are you really going, Natascha?” His eyes, usually soft, were sharp with suspicion.
She froze, her heart hammering. The truth teetered on her tongue—but Olu’s hold was stronger. “Just out,” she said, forcing a smile. She left before he could press further, knowing the web was fraying.
How long could she keep this up?
Natascha’s existence had morphed into a dizzying swirl of submission and deception, each moment with Olu Shango dragging her further into his orbit. What started as clandestine trysts in his apartment had spiraled into an unyielding rhythm of erotic surrender. Until now, Olu had orchestrated her en
counters, his dark eyes always present, watching as other men took her under his command. But one evening, his tone shifted—cool, deliberate—as he laid out a new plan. “You’re ready for more,” he said, his fingers tracing her jaw. “My clients—rich, powerful men—want you alone. Hotel rooms, their rules. You’ll go, you’ll please them, and you’ll bring me the cash. That’s your proof.”
Natascha’s breath caught, a flicker of unease mingling with the heat his words sparked. “Alone?” she asked, her voice small. “What do they… expect?”
Olu’s smile was sharp, knowing. “They’re not like Jo. They’ve got tastes—perversions, you’d call them. One likes to bind you, wrists and ankles, leave you helpless while he takes his time. Another gets off on making you beg, edging you until you’re a mess. A third—he’ll want your ass, slow and deep, no mercy. You’ll do it all, Natascha. For me.”
Her mind reeled, picturing the scenes—ropes biting her skin, her voice breaking on pleas, the stretch of something forbidden. It was filthy, degrading, yet her body betrayed her, a pulse of arousal blooming low. “And you won’t be there?” she pressed, needing his anchor.
“No,” he said, his gaze steady. “You’re mine to command, not to babysit. Bring me the money, and I’ll know you’ve obeyed. Then you get me—my cock, your reward.” His promise hung between them, a tether she couldn’t resist.
The first date came a week later. Olu handed her a keycard and an address—a sleek hotel downtown—along with a name: Victor. “He’s the binder,” Olu said. “Likes control. Five hundred bucks when you’re done.” Natascha dressed in a tight black dress, her nerves buzzing as she rode the elevator to the penthouse suite. Victor answered the door—a broad-shouldered man in his fifties, silver threading his dark hair, his skin a rich mahogany. His eyes raked over her, a predator’s glint in them. “Olu’s girl,” he murmured, stepping aside. “Let’s see if you’re worth it.”
The room was all glass and leather, city lights glinting beyond the windows. Victor didn’t waste time. “Strip,” he ordered, pulling a coil of red rope from a drawer. Natascha complied, her dress hitting the floor, her skin prickling as he circled her, appraising. He moved with precision, binding her wrists behind her back, the rope snug but not cruel, then her ankles, forcing her to kneel on the plush carpet. She tested the knots—tight, unyielding—and a thrill shot through her, the helplessness oddly freeing.
Victor shed his shirt, revealing a muscled chest, then unzipped his trousers, his cock springing free—thick, veined, already hard. He knelt behind her, his hands roaming her bound body, squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples until she gasped. “Pretty thing,” he muttered, his breath hot on her neck. He spread her thighs as far as the ropes allowed, his fingers dipping into her, finding her wet despite—or because of—the restraint. “You like this, don’t you?” he taunted, and she nodded, a flush creeping up her chest, surprised by her own eagerness.
He took his time, teasing her clit with slow circles, then sliding two fingers inside, curling them until she squirmed, the ropes holding her in place. “Please,” she whispered, unprompted, and he chuckled, withdrawing his hand to position himself. He entered her in one smooth thrust, her pussy stretching around his girth, the angle deep with her knees pinned. The rhythm built—steady, then fierce—his hands gripping her bound arms for leverage, her breasts bouncing with each plunge. Without Olu’s eyes on her, she expected to feel adrift, but the rawness of it, the sheer control Victor wielded, lit her up. She moaned, loud and unrestrained, her body rocking into him, craving the edge.
When he unbound her wrists to flip her onto her back, she spread for him willingly, her ankles still tied, her green eyes locked on his. He fucked her harder now, his cock hitting deep, his thumb rubbing her clit in time with his thrusts. “Come for me,” he growled, and she did—her orgasm bursting through her like wildfire, her cry sharp, her walls pulsing around him as he groaned, finishing inside her, his seed a warm flood. She lay there, panting, a grin tugging at her lips—shocked at how much she’d enjoyed it, Olu’s absence replaced by her own reckless abandon.
Victor tossed her a stack of bills—five crisp hundreds—his smirk approving. “Tell Olu you’re a keeper,” he said, and she dressed, the money clutched in her hand, her proof of obedience.
Back at Olu’s apartment, she handed him the cash, her body still humming from Victor’s touch. His eyes gleamed as he counted it, then set it aside. “Good girl,” he said, pulling her close. He stripped her slow, tasting the faint salt of sweat on her skin, then bent her over his dining table. His cock slid into her, reclaiming her with deliberate thrusts, her pussy tender but eager. “You had fun,” he murmured, his hands on her hips, and she nodded, breathless, as he drove her to another peak. Her reward orgasm hit hard, a shuddering release that erased Victor’s mark, binding her tighter to Olu—his cock, his will, her world now orbiting his command.
One night, in a sleek penthouse suite, a broad-shouldered man named Marcus paid Olu a hefty sum for her. He was a businessman, his skin a deep mahogany, his hands calloused and commanding. He didn’t speak much, just pointed to the floor. Natascha knelt, her green eyes flickering up as he unbuckled his belt. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, and he gripped her hair, guiding her mouth onto him. She sucked eagerly, her tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the salt of his precum. He groaned, thrusting deeper, hitting the back of her throat until she gagged, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Good girl,” he muttered, then yanked her up, bending her over the glass dining table. The cold surface pressed against her breasts as he spread her legs, entering her with a single, brutal thrust. His pace was relentless, his hands bruising her hips, and when she came—screaming, her pussy clenching around him—he laughed, smacking her ass before finishing inside her.
Another time, in a dimly lit motel, a younger man named Jamal took her in the backseat of his car. He was lean, wiry, with a cock that curved upward, hitting spots Jo never could. He made her ride him, her hands braced against the roof, her moans fogging the windows. “Bounce harder,” he growled, slapping her thighs until they stung. She obeyed, her body slick with sweat, her orgasm crashing through her as he gripped her neck, pumping his release into her with a guttural shout.
Each encounter fed her addiction to Olu’s dominance. He’d watch sometimes, his dark eyes gleaming with pride as she surrendered to his commands. “You’re my prize,” he’d say, counting the cash she’d earned. But his ambitions grew darker still. One evening, he handed her a short red dress and fishnet stockings. “No more hotels,” he said. “You’re working the street now. More money, more men.”
Natascha balked, her suburban sensibilities flaring. “The street? Olu, I can’t—”
“You will,” he cut in, his voice steel. “You’re mine, Natascha. Prove it.”
She did. That night, she stood under a flickering streetlamp, her heart pounding as cars slowed. A middle-aged man in a pickup truck beckoned her over, his eyes raking her body. “How much?” he asked, his voice gruff. She named Olu’s price, and he nodded, opening the passenger door. She climbed in, her hands trembling as he drove to an alley. There, he unzipped his pants, revealing a thick, uncircumcised cock. “Mouth only,” he said. She hesitated—blowjobs were something she’d never given Jo, always deflecting with, “I don’t want you to lose respect for me.” But with this stranger, under Olu’s invisible command, she leaned down, taking him between her lips. She sucked him slow at first, then faster, her head bobbing as he groaned, his hand pushing her deeper. He came quickly, flooding her mouth, and she swallowed, a mix of shame and exhilaration burning through her as he tossed her the cash.
Unbeknownst to Natascha, Jo’s suspicions had hardened into action. That same night, he’d followed her, his old sedan trailing her taxi to the seedy part of town. He parked a block away, watching in disbelief as she stepped onto the curb in that red dress, her brown hair catching the streetlight. His stomach churned when she climbed into the pickup truck, but he followed, parking just close enough to see into the alley.
Through the truck’s window, Jo saw her head dip into the man’s lap, her movements unmistakable. Fury surged—Natascha had denied him this intimacy for decades, citing respect, yet here she was, pleasuring a stranger. But as he watched, something shifted. His anger twisted into a dark, unexpected arousal. His pants tightened, his breath quickening as the man’s head tipped back in ecstasy. When Natascha emerged, wiping her lips, Jo’s hand drifted to his crotch, stroking himself through the fabric, stunned by the heat coursing through him.
He didn’t confront her. Instead, he began trailing her more often, a silent voyeur to her secret life. One night, he watched her in a cheap motel room, the curtains parted just enough to reveal her astride a hulking man, her body arching as she came, her cries piercing the night. Jo stood in the shadows, masturbating furiously, his climax syncing with hers, a twisted bond forming in his silence.
Olu Shango wasn’t blind. He’d spotted Jo’s car lurking near Natascha’s corners, noticed the older man’s flushed face and furtive movements. One evening, as Natascha knelt before him in his apartment, Olu’s cock buried in her throat, he smirked. “Your husband’s been watching you,” he said casually, pulling her off him. She froze, green eyes wide.
“What?”
“Saw him last night, jerking off while you fucked that trucker. He’s into it, Natascha. Gets off seeing you take other cocks.”
Her mind reeled—horror, shame, and a flicker of curiosity warring within her. Olu laughed, stroking her cheek. “Guess he’s not as vanilla as you thought.”
Days later, Natascha confronted Jo. She’d caught him trailing her again, his car idling across from the alley where she’d just serviced a client. She stormed up to him, banging on his window. “How long have you known?” she demanded as he rolled it down, his face pale.
“Long enough,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze. But she saw the bulge in his pants, the truth Olu had revealed undeniable.
“You like it,” she said, her voice low, testing. “You like watching me.”
Jo swallowed hard, then nodded, a flush creeping up his neck. Natascha’s lips curled into a smile, a new power blooming within her. “Then pay for it,” she said. “Come to Olu’s place tonight. You’ll see everything.”
That night, Jo found himself in Olu Shango’s dimly lit bedroom, the air thick with musk and anticipation. He sank into a creaky wooden chair, his hands clamping onto the armrests, knuckles whitening as his pulse hammered. Natascha stood before him, stark naked, her pale skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, faint purple bruises dotting her hips and thighs—marks from the rough hands of strangers she’d serviced on the streets. Her green eyes flickered with a mix of defiance and shame, her brown hair tangled and wild. Olu towered behind her, his muscular frame a wall of ebony power, his bald head gleaming under the low light, his presence dwarfing her fragile form.
Olu stepped forward, his bare chest rippling as he held out a thick hand. “Two hundred bucks,” he said, voice low and commanding. “Up front. You pay to see your own wife fucked right, old man.”
Jo’s throat bobbed, his fingers trembling as he fished out the cash—two crisp hundreds—and pressed them into Olu’s palm. The weight of the transaction burned in his gut, a twisted mix of humiliation and heat pooling below his belt. Olu smirked, pocketing the bills, then turned to Natascha, his hands gripping her shoulders. “On the bed,” he ordered, shoving her forward.
She stumbled onto the mattress, the springs groaning under her weight, and Olu was on her in an instant, his massive hands prying her thighs apart. Her legs splayed wide, exposing her slick, swollen pussy, already glistening from the day’s sins. “Watch close, Jo,” Olu taunted, his voice a gravelly sneer as he shed his pants, his cock springing free—long, thick, veined, a brutal contrast to Jo’s modest endowment. Sweat beaded on his brow, his skin shining as he positioned himself between her legs, the head of his cock nudging her entrance. “This is what she needs.”
He thrust in hard, one deep plunge that buried him to the hilt, stretching her open with a wet, obscene sound. Natascha’s back arched, a guttural moan tearing from her throat as her walls clamped around him, her body shuddering under the force. Olu didn’t ease up—his hips snapped forward, relentless, the bed rocking as he pounded into her, sweat dripping from his chest onto her quivering stomach. Her breasts bounced wildly, nipples hard, her hands clawing at the sheets as the room filled with the slap of flesh on flesh and her ragged gasps.
“Tell him,” Olu growled, his hand cracking against her ass, leaving a red imprint on her pale skin. “Tell him what you love.”
Natascha’s eyes locked onto Jo’s, wild and unrepentant, her voice hoarse with lust. “I love it, Jo,” she gasped, her words punctuated by Olu’s thrusts. “I love his cock—so big, so hard, fills me like you never could. He’s better—fuck, so much better. I need real men like him, not your weak little tries. I love how he fucks me, how he owns me—every damn inch of this cock makes me scream.”
Jo groaned, his resolve crumbling as her words sliced through him. His hand fumbled with his zipper, yanking it down to free his aching dick—smaller, softer, nothing like the beast splitting his wife apart. He gripped himself, stroking fast, his breath hitching as he watched Olu dominate her, the sight searing into his brain.
Olu grinned, sweat rolling down his temples, his pace unrelenting. “She’s my whore now, Jo,” he said, his voice cutting through the haze of grunts and moans. “I send her out—hotel rooms, dark alleys—rich bastards pay to use her. She takes their cocks, their cash, every twisted thing they want. Brings it back to me like a good little slut. And one day—” he thrust deeper, making Natascha cry out—“I’m gonna breed her. Fill this pussy with my seed, put my kid in her belly. You’ll watch that too, won’t you?”
Natascha whimpered, her body trembling, sweat slicking her curves as Olu’s words fueled her spiral. “Yes,” she rasped, “breed me, Olu—fuck, I want it.” Her hips bucked up to meet him, desperate, her thighs quaking as he drove her toward the edge.
Jo’s hand moved faster, his dick throbbing in his fist, the image of his wife—sweaty, flushed, impaled on Olu’s massive cock—pushing him to the brink. Olu’s thrusts grew erratic, his breaths harsh, his hands digging into Natascha’s hips as he fucked her with brutal intent. “Come for him,” he snarled, slapping her ass again, the crack echoing. “Show him what I do to you.”
She shattered. Her orgasm hit like a storm, her body convulsing, her scream ripping through the room as her pussy clenched tight around Olu’s cock, milking him. Her eyes stayed on Jo, wide and glassy, reveling in his torment and arousal, her voice breaking as she gasped, “This is what I need—his cock, his cum—fuck, Jo, watch me take it!”
Jo’s climax hit at the peak of hers, a strangled cry bursting from him as he came, ropes of white splattering his lap, his hand slowing as he stared, transfixed. Olu roared, his hips slamming one last time, burying himself deep as he erupted—hot, thick spurts flooding Natascha’s pussy, overflowing around his shaft, dripping onto the sheets in a messy, glistening pool. He held her there, panting, letting Jo see every pulse, every drop, the excess spilling down her thighs as she trembled beneath him.
Olu pulled out slow, his cock slick and heavy, a final bead of cum dripping from the tip as he stepped back. Natascha collapsed, breathless, her legs still spread, Olu’s seed leaking from her, marking her as his. Jo sat slumped, spent, the $200 a brand on his soul, the image of his wife’s submission—and her overflowing ruin—etched forever in his mind.
From that night, Jo became a regular payer, forking over cash to witness her degradation, their marriage a warped, sweaty dance under Olu Shango’s iron rule.