Chapter 1: The Letter of Desire and Humiliation
My Dearest Matt,
I’m writing this while you’re at work. The house is quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator and the clock ticking in the hallway. It’s a sound that echoes in the emptiness here. In me. I’m on the bed, our bed, and my hand is between my thighs. It’s not excitement, not the way you think of it. It’s an ache. A deep, hollow throb that your four and a half inches has never once, not in twelve years, come close to filling.
I need you to understand this. I need you to feel it in your gut, where your own inadequacy curdles. So do what I say. Go on. Unzip your trousers. Take your pathetic little cock out. I want you to hold it while you read this. I want you to feel how soft it is, how small it is in your hand, while I tell you what I’m really thinking about.
It’s not you.
It hasn’t been you for a long, long time.
Do you remember last night? You climbed on top of me, your breath hot and eager in my ear. I let you. I even moaned a little, the way I know you like. But inside, Matt, I was somewhere else entirely. I was thinking about a man I saw at the grocery store. A construction worker, I think. His hands were rough-looking, stained with dirt. He was leaning over the meat counter and his jeans were stretched tight across a truly magnificent ass. I stood there in the cereal aisle and felt this clench, this unbearable tightness low in my belly, imagining what his hands would feel like on my hips. How a cock that belonged to a body like that would feel splitting me open.
I pressed my thighs together right there by the Cheerios. It was the most sensation I’d felt all week.
You’re stroking yourself now, aren’t you? Pathetic. Is there even a drop of precum? If there is, I want you to lick it off your fingers. Taste it. Taste the bitter, weak proof of what you are. Do it.
Good boy.
At night, when you’re snoring softly beside me, I turn away. I press my thick ass back against you, knowing you’re half-hard in your sleep, and I grind against it just for the friction. It’s never enough. I close my eyes and I imagine a weight that isn’t yours. A thickness that isn’t yours. I imagine being pinned, truly pinned, by a man who doesn’t ask if it’s good, who doesn’t need his ego stroked every three thrusts. A man who knows what he’s doing with the body he’s been given. I clench the pillow between my legs and I fantasize about being stretched so wide it almost hurts, filled so completely I can’t breathe, fucked so deeply I forget my own name.
That’s what a real cock does, Matt. It makes a woman forget.
Yours just makes me remember. Remember that I’m thirty-eight. Remember that my tits are still full, my nipples dark and sensitive, my ass is still something men turn to watch. And it’s all going to waste. Wrapped around a nervous, minimal effort. A little nub that taps apologetically at my entrance before slipping inside, where it disappears.
I deserve to be ruined. I deserve to be fucked so thoroughly that I walk differently the next day. I want to feel raw. I want to wince when I sit down and smile a secret smile knowing why I’m wincing.
I want a man to look at my large, dark areolas and not just peek shyly, but to bury his face between my tits, suck on them like he’s starving, bite them until I cry out. I want to be used. For my purpose.
And you, my darling husband, are not using me for my purpose. You’re keeping me from it.
Your hand is moving faster now. I can feel it through the paper, through the miles. You’re ashamed and hard at the same time, aren’t you? That’s your favorite cocktail. The humiliation. The sharp, delicious sting of knowing you’ll never be enough. It’s the only thing that really gets you going. So come on. Come for me. Come on your own stomach, in a sad, lonely little spurt. Imagine it’s me you’re covering. Imagine I’m letting you do that, letting you mark me. But in the fantasy, Matt, as you’re pulsing out your pathetic disappointment, I want you to picture my face. I’m not looking at you. I’m looking over your shoulder. I’m watching the door.
I’m waiting for it to open.
Clean yourself up. I’ll be home soon. We’ll have dinner. You’ll ask me about my day.
I’ll tell you I wrote you a letter.
I wonder if you’ll have the guts to ask what it said.
I wonder if you’ll have the guts to ask what it said.
You won’t. You’ll just look at me with those wounded puppy eyes, the ones that used to make me feel guilty and now just make my skin prickle with irritation. You’ll clear your throat and ask if I want the potatoes passed. And I’ll say yes, and we’ll eat in that heavy, familiar silence.
But for now, I’m still here in our bed. The ache is worse now, a persistent, throbbing emptiness. Writing to you made it sharper. It made it real. I look at myself in the vanity mirror across the room. My long hair is messy, tumbled around my shoulders. My lips are a little swollen from where I bit them. I see the woman in the reflection, the one trapped in this polite, passionless life, and a spike of pure rebellion goes through me.
You want to know what I’m thinking? You want a glimpse into the fantasy? Fine.
Let’s make it a little more real for you.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The cold glass feels good against my warm skin. I prop it up against the lamp base, tapping the screen to camera mode. The rectangle of the screen frames the rumpled sheets, the headboard, the space where you sleep.
I don’t pose. I don’t smile. I just look directly into the lens, my expression utterly flat, devoid of the performance I usually give you. With my other hand, I pull the neck of my shirt down, just over the curve of my right breast. The fabric sinks under the weight. I let it. I hold the gaze of the camera, of the future you who will see this, and I take the picture.
The shutter sound is obscenely loud in the quiet room.
I look at the image. It’s perfect. It’s not pornography. It’s a document. You can see the tiredness around my eyes, the faint line between my brows. You can see the heavy, soft swell of flesh, the shadow of the large, dark areola just barely hinted at beneath the stretched cotton. It’s a photo of offering and contempt, all in one. It’s a photo of what you have, and what you cannot satisfy.
My thumb hovers over your name. A text thread full of mundane logistics: Out of milk. Running late. Don’t forget the dry cleaning.
I attach the image. I don’t write a caption. A caption would be for you. This is for me.
I hit send.
There. Now you have it. A piece of the fantasy, frozen and delivered to the palm of your hand. I imagine the vibration in your pocket at your desk. Your confused smile as you pull the phone out, thinking it’s a meme or a work email. The smile dissolving. The slow, dawning horror. The quick, furtive glance around the office. The heat flooding your face. The inevitable, treacherous stirring in your trousers as you stare at the unasked-for, devastating proof of my body, and my discontent.
You’ll stare at that photo all afternoon. You’ll zoom in. You’ll try to read my eyes. You’ll wonder who else I’ve sent it to. You’ll die a little, and you’ll get hard a lot, and you’ll hate yourself for both reactions.
And tonight, when you come home, you still won’t ask about the letter.
But you’ll look at me. And for once, you might actually see me.
And for once, you might actually see me.
Now, put the letter down. Just for a moment. I want your full compliance.
Focus on that sad little thing in your hand. You’re stroking it all wrong. I know you. Short, frantic little tugs, like you’re trying to start a stubborn lawnmower. That’s not how you touch a cock. Even one like yours.
Do it properly. Use your whole fist. Make it slow. Deliberate. Feel how your fingers, your own fingers, nearly meet your thumb around the shaft. My hand practically disappears when I touch you. My palm cups the head, my fingers wrap all the way around, and there’s still room. It’s like holding a children’s toy. A cute little plug for a much larger, emptier hole.
Think about that. Think about my hands. They’re not small, Matt. They’re strong. Capable. They could guide a real man, savor him, work him to a fury. With you, they just… smother. They hide you completely.
Now picture my tits. The full weight of them. Remember last weekend, when you tried to fuck me with them? You got so excited, pushing your little dick between them, your eyes wide. You looked like a boy who’d found a cheap thrill. All I could see from my angle was the top of your head, and this tiny, pink tip appearing and disappearing in a valley of flesh. It looked laughable. Insignificant. My body made a spectacle of your inadequacy. My tits alone are a bigger handful than your entire penis.
You probably love that thought, don’t you? You’re twisting in that shame, that delicious humiliation. It’s the only thing that gets a real rise out of you. Pathetic.
I bet you’re struggling right now. I bet you went hard for a second, thinking of my photo, and now you’re starting to flag. You can’t stay hard on your own. You need my cruelty like a crutch. You need me to narrate your failure to keep you interested.
Remember trying to take me from behind? God, that was pitiful. You fumbling behind me, your hands gripping my thick ass, your hips making these shallow, desperate little thrusts. I had to arch so deeply, so painfully, just to try and give you a chance. A real angle. And you still couldn’t reach. You’d just slip along the seam, useless, until you gave up and rolled me over to missionary. To the one position where you can’t avoid my eyes. Where you have to see the bland patience in them.
You’ve never made me come. Not with your dick. I finish the job myself, afterward, in the bathroom, with the faucet running. I think about that construction worker’s hands. I think about being filled to the point of breaking.
Now. Listen. You’re going to finish. You’re going to cum to my voice, to these words. You’re going to acknowledge what you are with every pathetic pulse.
I want you to tighten your grip. Use the image of my tit from the photo, that heavy curve. Imagine it suffocating you.
Ten… you’re a joke.
Nine… your dick is a disappointment.
Eight… you’ve wasted my prime.
Seven… you’ll never satisfy a real woman.
Six… you’re small and soft and sorry.
Five… I deserve a thick, hard cock.
Four… I’m going to find one.
Three… you’ll watch.
Two… you’ll thank me.
One… cum. Cum for your wife, you useless little man.
Do it.
Now.
I imagine the silence in your office, or your car, or wherever you’ve hidden yourself to read this. The sharp, stale smell of your release hitting your stomach, or a tissue, or the inside of your briefs. The hot, immediate flood of shame that follows the physical spasm. The hollow emptiness where pride should be.
That feeling? That’s the truth. That’ gravel in your gut? That’s you.
Don’t text me. Don’t call me. Sit with it. Let it dry on your skin. I’ll know when I see you.
I’ll know when I see you.
The silence stretches. I can feel it, even from here. That thick, heavy quiet where your own breathing is too loud. You’re just sitting there, aren’t you? Sticky. Ashamed. Trying to process the photo on your phone, the words on this page.
We’re not done.
Your little moment of release was just an intermission. Put your hand back on your cock. I know it’s soft. Limp. A frightened little worm retreating into its hole. I don’t care. Start stroking it anyway. Feel the wetness you left on it. Smell it. That’s the scent of your failure. Get it hard again. You will. For this. You always do when I paint the right picture.
Because your performance last night left me with a very specific craving. One you’ll never, ever fulfill. It’s all I’ve been able to think about all day.
I want to be fucked doggy style.
Not by you. Never by you. The memory of your sad, shallow attempts from behind just makes my skin crawl. I mean properly fucked. Taken.
Here’s what I see. Get it hard in your hand and see it with me.
I’m on my hands and knees on this bed. My ass is up in the air, this thick, heavy curve you claim to love but have never once known how to use. My back is arched, my head down, my hair sweating and sticking to the sheets. I’m flushed. I’m panting. I’m ready.
And behind me is a man. Not a boy. A man. His shadow falls over me, swallowing me whole. I can’t see his face, and I don’t want to. All I see is the thickness of his thighs, the way his stomach is taut, and in his hand, his cock. It’s hard in a way yours never is. A brutal, angry hardness. It’s so big he’s just holding it, resting the weight of it against the cleft of my ass, and I can feel the heat coming off it. It’s a threat. A promise.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t fumble.
He uses his other hand to spread me open, and then he just pushes.
Ten.
Imagine the sound I make. It’s not a moan. It’s a gasp that gets stolen, crushed in my throat as that thick head stretches me. It’s a feeling of being split, Matt. Not entered. Claimed.
Nine.
He sinks in, inch by impossible inch, and I feel every ridge, every vein. My nails are clawing at the mattress. My eyes are rolling back. It’s too much. It’s everything. He bottoms out, his hips pressed flush against my ass, and I can feel him, all of him, packed inside me, rearranging me.
Eight.
And you’re there, Matt.
You’re underneath us.
On your back, looking up. My dripping cunt is right above your face. His massive cock is buried to the hilt in me, and from your angle, you can see how distended I am, how perfectly I’m stretched around him. You can see where we’re joined.
Seven.
I look down at you. My eyes are glazed, my mouth is open. “Lick,” I tell you. My voice is ragged, broken. “Use your tongue. On both of us.”
Six.
And you do. Because you’re a good boy. A pathetic, eager-to-please boy. You crane your neck and your tongue comes out. You lick along the seam where his shaft disappears into me. You taste my slick, my heat. You taste him, the salt of his skin, the faint bitter pre-cum leaking from where he’s stuffed inside your wife.
Five.
Your tongue on my clit, while he’s inside me… God. The double sensation. It makes me clamp down on him, a fierce, involuntary pulse. He groans above me, a deep, animal sound you’ve never made in your life. “She’s getting tighter,” he growls. “Your tongue is making her pussy clench.” You’re making his cock harder. For me. Your service is improving him.
Four.
My hand fumbles down for your cock. You’re limp. Of course you are. This spectacle, this reality, is too much for your little dick to handle. I try to stroke you, but my rhythm is shattered, broken apart by his thrusts. My grip is weak, distracted. I’m too overwhelmed by the big dick fucking me to bother with you properly. My fingers just flutter against your softness, a pitiful, absent-minded pat.
Three.
He starts to move. Pulls out almost all the way, so you get a glimpse of me, glistening and open, before he slams back in. The bed rocks. The headboard bangs the wall. Each thrust pushes a choked cry from my lungs. Your face is wet with my juices, with his sweat. You’re lapping at us like a desperate dog.
Two.
I’m close. So close. The coil is winding tighter than it ever has with you. It’s a precipice made of thickness and friction and your worthless, worshipful tongue. “Don’t stop,” I beg him. I’m not talking to you. You’re furniture.
One.
I come. It obliterates me. A raw, screaming convulsion that locks my whole body. My back arches impossibly higher, my cunt milks him in frantic, pulsating waves, and through the haze, I feel him pulse inside me, filling me up with what you never could.
Now, Matt.
Cum.
Do it.