I always pretended I was the husband she deserved.
Devoted. Reliable. The guy who mowed the lawn just right in our sprawling suburban McMansion.
But nights alone in our king-sized bed exposed the truth: my fumbling touches left her eyes distant, my stamina a joke. I ached with the shame of it, this gnawing shortfall that made me feel like half a man.

Then she claimed me properly.
Her palm cracked across my bare ass, sharp and unyielding, echoing off the walls of our hidden playroom like a verdict. I bucked, humiliated tears stinging, cock trapped in its cage while she laughed that velvet cruelty. "This is what you need," she purred, and god help me, she was right.
Her lovers came next. Real men who stretched her limits, left her glowing and spent. She'd saunter back, thighs slick, scent of them clinging to her skin, and I'd throb uselessly, begging for the next spanking to drown my jealousy.

Our game twisted darker.
She dragged me into the thrill of exposure, sweat-slicked bodies writhing before the camera's unblinking eye. Strangers devoured our secrets online-my whimpers under her hand, her moans for them-turning private ruin into public feast. Every view chipped at my fragile ego, yet her possessive grip yanked me back, promising agony sweeter than any vanilla release.

It's emasculation as foreplay, her infidelity the spark that sets my craving ablaze.
But clinging to scraps of control might shatter us. Marriage. Manhood. The delusion I ever led.
Can I dive into this cuckold abyss, let her supremacy erase me completely, before she tires of my half-hearted surrender?