50 Points to Total Cuckold Ruin

Diana Deepthroat

Copyright

Copyright ©2026 by Diana Deepthroat

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

First Roll – The Living Room Setup

The living room stank of cheap cedar candle and stale wine. Lara had dumped a velvet pouch on the coffee table, scattering six black dice with red letters across the glass. Each word on the dice was filthier than the last, and Mario’s balls tightened just reading them.

Lara sat on the rug, legs spread, silk robe gaping open so the side of her tit was on display every time she leaned forward. Her hair was yanked back in a ponytail, the way she wore it when she wanted to be in charge. She looked up at Mario, green eyes locked on him, and gave him that smirk that always made his balls crawl up inside him.

“Ready?” she asked.

Mario sat on the edge of the couch, knees almost touching hers, palms flat on his thighs to keep them from shaking. He wore the same gray button-down and jeans he’d come home in; the collar felt suddenly too tight. “I still don’t know if this is a good idea,” he said, but his voice came out quieter than he intended, almost swallowed by the low hum of the air conditioner.

Lara tilted her head. “You were hard the second I showed you the rules on my phone last week. Don’t pretend you weren’t.”

He swallowed. She was right. When she’d read him that filthy forum post—Humiliation Dice Dungeon, a game for cucks and sluts—he’d been so hard he’d nearly ripped through his boxers. She’d jerked him off while whispering about gangbangs, and he’d shot his load in her hand like a desperate teenager. The shame then was nothing compared to now, with her staring straight at him.

“Okay,” he managed. “One game. Just to see.”

Lara grinned wider. She grabbed the first die, rolled it in her fingers, and tossed it onto the table.

Home bedroom.

She snorted, satisfied. "Safe start." She picked up the next die, shook it, and let it drop.

Anonymous alpha.

Mario’s cock twitched in his jeans. Lara stared right at his crotch, smirked, and looked back up at him.

“Last one for tonight,” she murmured, and rolled the action die.

Blowjob only.

She leaned back, letting her robe fall open so her tits nearly spilled out, nipples poking through the black lace. "Perfect. We start easy," she said, voice low.

Mario’s mouth was dry. “What now?”

"Now I narrate." She dragged her nail down his jeans, stopping just before his hard-on. "You listen. If you want to stop me, you roll your little white die. Odds are shit. One in six, you win. Every time you lose, you get more shame."

He nodded, throat clicking.

Lara’s voice dropped. "Picture it. Our bed. Door locked. Lights low. He walks in. Big. Built. The kind of guy who doesn’t ask, just takes. No name. Just a cock."

Mario’s breathing shallowed.

“I’m already on my knees,” she continued, “because that’s where I belong when a real man walks in. I look up at him—green eyes wide, lips parted—and I don’t say a word. I just open my mouth.”

She licked her lower lip, slow and dirty.

"He doesn’t wait. Grabs my ponytail—right here." She yanked her own hair, making her tits bounce. "Shoves his cock down my throat, no warning, no gentle. Nose in his pubes, gagging on him."

Mario’s hands clenched on his thighs. He could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"I’m drooling already," Lara kept going. "Messy. Sloppy. The way you wish you could make me, but you never do. Spit all over my chin, tits soaked. He fucks my face like a pussy, hard and deep. Calls me his cocksleeve. Tells me I look better choking on his cock than I ever do with your little dick in my mouth."

Mario flinched. His cock throbbed, leaking through his briefs, even as the words stung.

"You’re in the corner," she said, staring him down. "Naked. Hands behind your back. No touching. Just watching your wife choke on another man’s cock while you drip like a pathetic loser."

She paused, letting the silence stretch. Then, softer: “Roll defense, baby. Try to stop me.”

Mario’s fingers shook as he picked up the small white die. He rolled. It skittered, landed on blank.

Failure.

Lara grinned, mean and sweet at the same time. "Two shame points. Take something off."

He hesitated, then fumbled with his shirt, dropping it behind him. The cold air made his nipples stand out.

"Good boy." She rolled again. Another fail. Three more shame. Jeans next. He stood, shoved them down, his cock popping out, red and leaking. He sat back down, bare ass on the cold leather, face burning.

Lara kept going, not letting up. She described the bull slapping her face with his cock, her begging for more, begging to be called a married slut while he used her throat like a toy. Mario kept rolling and failing, losing his socks, his briefs, forced to repeat after her: "My wife deserves bigger cocks." "I’m just here to watch." "Thank you for letting me see."

By twelve shame points, Lara’s robe was gone. She knelt between his legs in just a black thong and thigh-highs, tits swinging as she leaned in, never letting him touch.

"Look at you," she whispered, her breath hot on his cock. "So hard it must hurt. And I haven’t even let you taste my mouth yet."

Mario groaned, hips jerking involuntarily.

She grabbed her phone, aimed it so his leaking cock and her smirking face were both in the shot. "Smile for Steve," she said, snapping the picture. Steve—just some name she’d made up to humiliate him. Steve’s slut.

Mario’s gut twisted. "You didn’t really send that."

"Already sent." She tossed the phone down, screen still lit up. "Twelve points. Next time, I wear just the thong and thigh-highs. No top. No robe. Nothing else."

She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “And next time we roll, the location won’t be our bedroom.”

Mario’s cock twitched, a fat drop of pre-cum sliding down. Lara stared at it, then looked him in the eye.

“Think you can handle that, baby?”

He couldn’t speak. Only nodded.

Lara stood, ponytail swinging, thong soaked and clinging to her pussy. She strutted out, hips swaying, leaving him naked and desperate on the couch.

“Clean up,” she called over her shoulder. “We play again tomorrow.”

The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.

Mario stared at the dice on the table, caught his own reflection in the black TV—red-faced, hard, alone—and felt a cold knot of dread twist in his gut.

Outfit Upgrade – Kitchen Table Stakes

Saturday evening sunlight blasted through the kitchen windows, turning the white tile into a blinding checkerboard. The place reeked of lemon cleaner and the sweet, filthy scent already leaking out from between Lara’s legs. She stood at the head of the table in nothing but the same black thong and thigh-highs she’d worn last night, plus a white crop top that was so tight it looked like she’d stolen it from a kid. The thin cotton was stretched to hell over her tits, nipples poking out like they were trying to stab through. The hem barely covered the bottom of her tits; every breath flashed bare skin and the lacy waistband of her thong.

Mario’s hands shook as he poured the wine, the bottle clinking against the glass. He couldn’t stop staring at the thong, already soaked and sticking to the fat lips of her pussy. His cock was half-hard in the loose basketball shorts he’d thrown on after waking up alone and desperate.

Lara dropped the velvet pouch on the table. The black dice spilled out, red letters flashing like blood. She didn’t bother sitting. She leaned forward on her elbows, ass stuck out, ponytail swinging, staring right at him.

“Twenty-four hours later and you’re still hard for this, aren’t you?” Her voice was low, amused. “I checked the sent folder on my phone. Steve liked the picture. Sent back a single emoji. The first one. I got wet all over again reading it.”

Mario’s throat clicked. “You really sent it to a real number?”

“Burner, baby. But it’s real enough.” She picked up the location die, rolled it once across her palm, then let it fall.

Hotel bar.

Lara’s green eyes flared. “Oh, that’s delicious.”

Next, the bull dies. She shook it longer this time, letting the plastic rattle like a promise, then released it.

BBC.

Mario’s breath caught. His cock went rock hard, tenting his shorts so obviously Lara just stared at it.

“Last one,” she whispered, and rolled the action die.

Full fuck.

The word hung between them like a loaded gun. Lara let the silence drag out until Mario could hear his own heartbeat pounding. Then she smiled, slow and hungry.

“Read the rules out loud while I text Leo.”

She slid her phone across the table. The screen was open to a chat with 'Leo – Big.' Mario’s voice cracked as he started reading the rules off the laminated card, like some twisted game manual:

“‘Each failed defense roll adds three shame points. Each point forces one escalation. At fifty points, the game becomes real. No safe word. No take-backs.’”

While he read, Lara’s thumbs flew across her screen. She read the messages aloud in a husky murmur, making him repeat every filthy line after her.

“‘Hey stranger… I’m at a hotel bar in a tiny red dress with no panties. My husband’s watching from the corner like a sad little puppy. Want to come bend me over the bar stool and fuck me raw while he holds my drink?”

Mario’s voice shook as he echoed her. “My… my wife’s at a hotel bar—”

“Say it right,” she snapped, not looking up from the phone.

“My wife’s at a hotel bar in a tiny red dress with no panties,” he forced out. “I’m watching from the corner like a sad little puppy.”

Lara moaned softly at her own words. “Good boy. Keep going.”

She hit send, then rolled the defense die for him herself. It came up blank.

“Three points,” she announced. “Lose the shirt.”

Mario yanked the shirt off, chest already red. The cold air hit his skin, making his nipples hard. Lara rolled again. Blank.

“Six points total. Shorts off. Now.”

He shoved his shorts down. His cock sprang out, thick and veiny, the head already slick with pre-cum that stretched in a sticky string before snapping. He stood there naked in the bright kitchen, cock bobbing with every heartbeat, while Lara, still dressed like a whore, kept texting.

“‘He’s got a huge black cock, Mario. Thicker than your wrist. I’m already soaked just imagining it splitting me open.’”

Mario repeated it, voice raw. Another failed roll. Three more points—nine now. No clothes left, so Lara just pointed at the floor.

“Kneel.”

He dropped to his knees. The tile was freezing. Lara stepped in, the front of her soaked thong right in his face. He could smell her—sharp, sweet, filthy. She rolled again. Blank. Twelve points.

“Spread your knees wider. Let me see how hard you are for this.”

He did as he was told. Pre-cum dripped onto the floor between his legs. Lara dragged a fingernail along the underside of his cock, not even bothering to grip it, just teasing. He jerked helplessly.

“‘I want him to fuck me right there in the bar,’” she read, thumbs flying. “‘Bent over, dress around my waist, while everyone watches my husband leak all over himself.’”

Mario repeated every filthy word, voice breaking. Fifteen points. Eighteen. Twenty-one. Every failure made Lara breathe harder, made the wet spot on her thong spread. At twenty-four, she finally dropped the phone, grabbed his hair, and shoved his face into her crotch.

“Lick.”

He shoved his tongue against the soaked fabric, tasting her—hot, slick, dirty. Lara ground on his face, using him like a toy while she kept talking, voice ragged and hungry.

“He’d pull my dress up… fuck… right there at the bar… slide that fat black cock into me in one slow push while you watch from two feet away… I’d be moaning so loud everyone would know… ‘Your wife’s getting stretched by a real man, Mario…’”

She was already close. Mario felt her thighs shaking against his ears. He licked harder, sucking the wet lace into his mouth, desperate for more. But just as her breath turned into that needy whine, she shoved his head away.

“No. Not yet.”

Twenty-seven points. One more roll. Blank.

“Twenty-eight,” Lara said, voice thick. She stepped back, chest heaving, nipples hard under the crop top. “New rule. Every time, I edge you. I keep you right there,” she flicked the head of his cock, making him groan, “but you don’t get to cum until we hit fifty. Got it?”

Mario nodded, frantic. His balls ached so badly he thought they might burst.

“Good. Now make me cum while I moan his name.”

She yanked the thong aside, threw a leg over his shoulder, and dragged his mouth onto her bare, dripping cunt. Mario dove in like he hadn’t eaten in days. He licked her slit, sucked her clit, fucked her with his tongue just how she liked. Lara ground her hips on his face, smearing her juices all over him.

“Leo… fuck, Leo… your cock’s so much bigger… Mario could never… never stretch me like this… oh god I’m gonna cum thinking about your black dick—”

She came hard, thighs crushing his head, a guttural moan ripping out of her. Her pussy clenched on his tongue, flooding his mouth with fresh cum. Mario kept licking through every spasm, cock throbbing and untouched, pre-cum dripping onto the tile.

When she finally shoved him away, her eyes were glassy, satisfied, mean.

“Twenty-eight points,” she whispered, wiping cum-soaked hair from her face. “We’re more than halfway, baby. Next time we roll, it’s going to be a real bar.”

She reached over, picked up the location die again, and gave it a lazy preview roll across the table. It tumbled, slowed, and stopped.

Bar.

Lara looked down at Mario—naked, kneeling, face smeared with her cum, cock purple and leaking—and gave him the same filthy grin that started all this.

“Lick the floor clean. Then get some sleep. Tomorrow we’re going out to find the perfect spot.”

She turned and walked out, ass jiggling in the tiny thong, leaving him on his knees in the bright kitchen, heart pounding, not sure if he was more humiliated or turned on.

Public Tease – The Bar Fantasy

Mario came home to find the living room looking like a cheap imitation of a high-end bar, the kind where the drinks cost more than his dignity. String lights hung crooked across the bookshelves, casting a sleazy yellow glow over everything. Lara had hauled the bar cart into the middle of the room and loaded it up with gin, tonic, and a bucket of ice that was already half water. Some slow, fuck-me R&B pulsed from the Bluetooth speaker, the bass thumping like a horny teenager's heart. The coffee table was gone, replaced by a single barstool—one of those wobbly ones from the kitchen. The whole place reeked of Lara's perfume, that sickly-sweet jasmine mixed with something dirtier, muskier, and the sharp stink of lime. It was the kind of setup that screamed, 'You're about to be humiliated.'

Mario walked through the front door at 7:42 p.m. and froze in the entryway.

Lara was behind the bar, looking like a porn star who'd wandered into a cocktail lounge. Her dress was blood red, thin enough to show every curve, every jiggle, every hard nipple. The hem barely covered her ass—one wrong move and everyone would see she wasn't wearing a damn thing underneath. The neckline plunged so deep her tits looked ready to spill out with every breath. Black heels made her legs look even longer, like she was daring someone to bend her over the bar. Her ponytail was yanked high and tight, her makeup caked on—smoky eyes, lips red and swollen like she'd just finished sucking someone off. She already had two drinks in her hands: one for her, one for the pathetic husband.

“Welcome to the bar, baby,” she said, voice pitched low and smoky to match the music. “You’re late. That’s going to cost you.”

Mario fumbled his keys, dropping them like the loser he was. His cock twitched at the sight of her—half from the dress, half from the way she looked at him like he was prey. That old feeling hit him: a sick mix of humiliation and rock-hard need.

“Change of plans tonight,” Lara continued, sliding his glass across the bar top. Gin and tonic, extra lime, the way he liked it. “No dice yet. We’re role-playing the fantasy first. Warm-up. Then we roll.”

He took the drink with numb fingers. “What do you mean, role-playing?”

She leaned in, elbows on the bar, tits practically falling out, nipples hard enough to poke holes in the dress. 'I'm the hotwife tonight. You're the pathetic cuck in the corner. Every time I whore myself out, you count the shame points. No arguing. No safe word. You just sit there and watch.'

Mario’s mouth went dry. “Lara—”

“Sit.” She pointed to the stool in the far corner, half-hidden behind the couch but with a perfect sightline to the “bar.” “And don’t touch yourself until I say.”

He did what he was told, planting his ass on the hard stool in the corner like a good little cuck. His hands shook as he set the drink down. Lara straightened up, tried to tug her dress down over her hips, but it just rode right back up, showing off more skin. She started to move, putting on a show just for him.

She poured herself another drink, slow and deliberate, bending at the waist so the dress hiked higher, flashing the bare curve of her ass and the shadowed cleft between her thighs. Mario’s breath caught. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“Imagine this is real,” she said, turning to face him while she sipped. “Some tall guy—Steve, maybe—walks in. Blond, built, that cocky smile. He sees me at the bar alone. Orders a whiskey. Stands close enough that I can smell his cologne. Expensive. Masculine.”

She set her glass down, walked around the bar cart, hips rolling. The heels clicked on the hardwood like gunshots.

“He leans in. Whispers something filthy in my ear. I laugh—soft, breathy. Let my hand brush his thigh. Feel how hard he already is under his slacks.”

Mario squirmed on the stool, his cock mashed painfully against his zipper. He wanted to reach down and fix himself, but he knew better than to try.

Lara kept going, voice dropping to a husky whisper that carried across the room.

“I turn toward him. Let him see down my dress. No bra tonight, baby. Just these hard nipples begging for a mouth. He notices. His hand slides to my lower back—possessive. Fingers dip just under the hem. Brushes bare skin. Then lower. Finds out I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

She demonstrated, trailing her own fingers up her thigh, stopping just short of her pussy. Mario could see the sheen already gathering on her inner thighs.

“I spread my legs a little. Just enough. Let him feel how wet I am. How ready. He groans. Calls me a dirty married slut right there at the bar.”

Mario was panting now, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. Pre-cum was already leaking through his boxers, leaving a pathetic wet patch that just kept spreading.

“Then Leo shows up.” Lara’s eyes glittered. “Because the roll said both. Dark skin, tattoos peeking out of his sleeves, that hungry stare. He doesn’t ask permission. Just steps up behind me. Presses against my ass so I can feel how thick he is. Sandwiched between them. Steve in front, Leo behind.”

She closed her eyes for a second, swaying to the music, hands sliding over her own body—cupping her breasts through the dress, pinching her nipples until she gasped.

“They take turns kissing my neck. Biting. Steve’s hand slips between my thighs. Fingers me right there—two thick fingers curling inside while Leo grinds against my ass. I’m moaning loud enough that people turn to look. Phones come out. Someone’s filming.”

Mario’s hand twitched toward his lap. Lara’s eyes snapped open.

“No. Not yet.”

She walked toward him—slow, deliberate—until she stood between his spread knees. The scent of her arousal hit him like a wave: sharp, sweet, intoxicating. She leaned down, lips brushing his ear.

“Steve pulls his cock out under the bar. Thick, veined, leaking. I drop to my knees right there on the sticky floor. Take him in my mouth while Leo holds my ponytail. Fucks my face in rhythm with Steve’s thrusts. They pass me back and forth like a toy. Spit dripping down my chin. Makeup ruined. Dress hiked around my waist.”

Mario let out a pathetic groan, his hips twitching like he was begging for attention. His cock throbbed, aching, desperate, but he knew he wasn't getting any relief.

“Then they bend me over the barstool.” Lara straightened, turned, and bent at the waist in front of him—ass presented, dress riding up to expose everything. No panties. Her pussy lips swollen, glistening, clit peeking out. “Steve slides into me first. Slow. Deep. Stretching me the way you never could. I scream his name. Leo steps in front. Feeds me his cock. They fuck me from both ends while the bar watches. Phones recording. My husband is sitting in the corner, leaking, useless.”

She reached back and spread her pussy wide, showing him everything. Mario could see her cunt pulsing, slick and dripping, a little puddle forming on the floor beneath her.

“Every thrust. Every slap of skin. Every time they call me their married whore. Every time I cum around a stranger’s cock while you watch.”

She stood up and faced him, chest heaving, nipples poking through the dress like they were trying to escape. She looked like she was about to cum just from the attention.

“Forty-one points,” she announced, voice trembling with her own arousal. “We’re so close, Mario. Fifty means it stops being pretend.”

She stepped in, straddling his lap but not letting him touch her, hovering just above his throbbing cock. He could feel the heat pouring off her pussy, so close he could almost taste it, but still out of reach.

“At fifty,” she whispered, grinding the air between them so close he could almost feel the slick glide, “I make it real. I call Steve. I call Leo. I bring them here. Or we go to them. And you watch. You film. You clean up. You thank me.”

Mario’s head fell back against the wall. A broken sound escaped his throat.

Lara reached down, unzipped him with one hand. His cock sprang free—purple, veined, slick with pre-cum. She wrapped her fingers around it—not stroking, just holding. Squeezing once, hard.

“But tonight,” she said, “you don’t get to cum.”

She let go of his cock and stepped back, tugging her dress down in a useless attempt at modesty. It still barely covered anything, and she knew it.

“Tomorrow night,” she continued, walking back to the bar cart, “we’re going out. To a real bar. Scouting locations. And if I feel like it… I might let someone touch me. Just to see how many more points we can rack up.”

She poured herself another drink. Sipped. Looked at him over the rim—eyes dark, pupils blown, lips wet.

“Clean yourself up, baby. And think about how hard you’re going to be watching me flirt with strangers tomorrow.”

She turned the music up slightly. The bass throbbed through the floorboards.

Mario sat there, cock hanging out, leaking all over his thigh, watching his wife's ass sway as she strutted down the hall to their bedroom. He didn't even bother to cover himself. What was the point?

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move for a long time.

The Real Bar – First Crack in Fantasy

The bar reeked of stale beer, overpriced cologne, and that sharp, metallic stink of Friday night desperation. Neon signs flickered overhead, vomiting red and blue light across the crowd. The bass hammered in Mario’s chest, matching the panic in his pulse. He trailed after Lara, three steps behind, invisible except for the way his eyes clung to her ass in that dress.

The dress was black, tight, and merciless. It clung to every inch of her body, the hem barely covering her ass as she strutted in heels that looked like weapons. No bra. Her tits bounced under the thin fabric, nipples hard and poking out every time the lights hit her. The neckline plunged so deep her tits were practically falling out, jiggling with every step. No panties, either. He knew because she’d made him watch her peel them off in the car and stuff them in his jacket pocket, grinning. 'For safekeeping, cuck.'

Mario’s cock had been twitching since they left the house. Now it was rock hard, smashed behind his zipper, drooling into his boxers. The wet spot was spreading with every step. His face burned with shame, but he couldn’t tear his eyes off her ass. Forty-one points. Almost at the edge.

Lara didn’t look back once as she shoved through the crowd. Every guy in the place stared, eyes crawling over her body like they owned it. Some tall asshole in a tight shirt stopped talking just to gape at her tits. Lara knew it. She always did. Her hips rolled harder, showing off for them. Mario’s gut twisted with that same filthy mix of jealousy and hard-on.

She slid onto a bar stool, crossing her legs slow enough to make sure the dress hiked up, flashing thigh. Mario sat two seats away, just like she’d told him in the car. 'Close enough to watch, far enough so they know you’re not with me.' He ordered a whiskey he didn’t want, just to have something to strangle while his hands shook.

Lara ordered a dirty martini. The bartender, some tattooed kid, stared at her tits while he poured. She leaned in, pressing her tits right onto the bar, nipples dragging across the wood through the dress. Mario watched the bartender swallow hard.

The first stranger approached within five minutes.

He was tall, maybe six-three, broad through the shoulders, with a trimmed beard and the easy confidence of a man who never had to try. Dark hair, dark eyes, suit jacket slung over one shoulder. He leaned against the bar beside Lara, as he belonged there.

“Evening,” he said, voice low and smooth. “You look like you’re celebrating something.”

Lara tilted her head, ponytail swinging, and gave him that slow, predatory smile Mario knew too well. “Maybe I am. My husband’s over there.” She nodded toward Mario without looking. “But he’s not very good at celebrating.”

The stranger glanced at Mario, smirked, then turned back to Lara like he was already irrelevant. “His loss.”

Mario’s cock throbbed so hard he had to squirm on the stool. Shame points: forty-two. The guy bought her a drink. Lara laughed, leaning in, her bare thigh pressed against his pants. Mario watched the guy’s hand slide onto the back of her stool, fingers creeping up her leg.

Then the hand moved higher.

Lara let him. She spread her thighs, just enough for his fingers to slip under her dress. Mario stared, helpless, as the stranger’s hand vanished under the black fabric. Lara’s mouth fell open, a little gasp. She stared at the guy, but then her eyes flicked to Mario—green, hungry, gloating.

Forty-three.

The stranger’s fingers worked her. Mario couldn’t see what he was doing, but he saw Lara’s hips grinding, her tits heaving. Her nipples were like bullets, stabbing through the dress. She bit her lip, whispered in his ear. The guy grinned, hand still buried under her dress, taking his time.

Mario was panting. His boxers were soaked with pre-cum, a wet patch spreading on his pants. He squeezed his glass so hard it almost shattered.

Lara finally stood. The stranger’s hand slipped out, glistening. She took it without hesitation and led him toward the dance floor, glancing back at Mario with a single raised eyebrow that said, " Stay.

Mario followed at a distance, weaving through bodies until he found a spot near the edge of the floor where he could watch without being obvious. The music was louder here, bass vibrating up through his shoes and into his aching balls.

Lara glued herself to the stranger. Her arms wrapped around his neck. His hands grabbed her ass, squeezing, pulling her against the bulge in his pants. The dress was useless now—her bare ass was out for everyone, Mario included, as the guy kneaded it. Lara threw her head back, laughing, then spun to face Mario while the stranger’s hands kept roaming.

She stared straight at her husband.

Her mouth formed words against the stranger’s neck—words Mario couldn’t hear but could guess. The man’s hand slid between them, under the front of her dress this time. Lara’s eyes fluttered. Her lips parted in a silent moan. Mario knew that look. She was soaked. The stranger’s fingers were inside her, right there on the dance floor, surrounded by people who had no idea—or maybe they did and didn’t care.

Forty-four. Forty-five.

Mario’s cock was leaking so much it felt like he’d pissed himself. The stink of his own pre-cum mixed with sweat and cheap perfume. His balls were tight, desperate for a release he wasn’t going to get.

The stranger spun her, grinding her ass into his crotch. Lara reached back, grabbed his cock through his pants, stroking it slow while staring straight at Mario. Her lips mouthed: 'Bigger than you.'

Forty-six.

She danced like a slut for three songs—grinding, letting the stranger grope her, finger her, kiss her neck, whisper filth that made her laugh and moan. Mario just stood there, cock throbbing, heart pounding, shame and lust choking him until he felt dizzy.

Finally, Lara pulled away. She kissed the stranger once—deep, open-mouthed, tongues visible—then whispered something that made him grin and hand her his phone. She typed something in, handed it back, and sauntered off the floor as if nothing had happened. The stranger watched her ass the entire way.

Lara strutted straight to Mario. Her face was flushed, lips swollen, eyes glazed over. She reeked of sex—musky, sweet, filthy. She shoved the stranger’s fingers, still wet from her cunt, right up to Mario’s mouth.

“Smell,” she ordered quietly.

He sniffed. The stink of her cunt hit him—thick, sour, unmistakable. His cock twitched hard in his pants.

“Taste.”

He opened his mouth. She shoved her fingers in. Mario sucked like a starving dog, tongue lapping up the taste of another man’s fingers on his wife’s cunt. Lara’s eyes went black with satisfaction.

“Forty-six points,” she whispered, voice husky. “We’re so fucking close, baby. One more good night and the game wins.”

She pulled her fingers free with a wet pop, then grabbed his hand. “Car. Now.”

The drive home was torture.

Lara leaned the seat back, yanked her dress up to her waist, and spread her legs wide. The light was low, but Mario could see everything. Her pussy was swollen, glistening, lips spread and dripping. She started rubbing herself, slow and lazy, two fingers circling her clit while he drove.

“Stroke,” she commanded.

Mario fumbled his zipper down with one hand, steering with the other. His cock popped out, angry red, veins bulging, head shiny with pre-cum. He grabbed it and started jerking off, slow.

Lara described every detail in a low, filthy voice.

“He had thick fingers… two of them curling right against my G-spot while we danced. I was so wet I could hear it over the music. He told me he wanted to bend me over the bar and fuck me in front of you. Said he’d make me scream his name while you watched.”

Mario’s hand sped up. His breathing was ragged.

“I almost came on his hand,” she continued, fingers plunging into herself now, making wet, obscene sounds. “Almost let a total stranger make me cum while my husband stood there leaking like a pathetic little cuck. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But I saved it for you.”

She yanked her fingers out, dripping, and smeared them across Mario’s mouth. 'Taste how close I was.'

He licked like a dog, hips jerking into his fist.

“Faster,” she ordered. “But don’t you dare cum.”

Mario jerked faster, the edge coming quick. His balls were tight, aching. The car was full of the wet, filthy sounds of his fist and her fingers.

Lara pulled out her phone. She angled it down, snapped a quick photo of her spread thighs—pussy dripping onto the leather seat, fingers glistening. Then she opened the chat with “Steve – Big” and typed:

Thinking about you tonight.

She attached the photo and hit send.

Mario’s eyes flicked to the screen. His cock surged. “Lara—”

“Eyes on the road, cuck.”

She grabbed the base of his cock, stopping him cold right as he was about to blow. The orgasm died in his balls, sharp and mean. He groaned, pathetic.

She smiled in the dark, phone still glowing in her lap.

“Forty-six points,” she whispered again. “Steve just replied with three fire emojis. Next weekend we roll again. And this time… I think we’re going to hit fifty.”

They pulled into the driveway. Lara yanked her dress down, got out, and left Mario sitting there—cock still out, throbbing, denied, leaking onto his own leg.

He stared at the front door she’d left open, heart pounding, knowing he was going to follow her inside.

Knowing he would never stop.

Double Date – The Point of No Return

Saturday night hit like a punch to the face. The house reeked of Lara’s stupid candle and Mario’s nervous sweat. He stood in the kitchen, still in his work clothes, sleeves shoved up, watching Lara get ready to whore herself out.

Lara wore a green satin dress that barely covered her tits. No bra, no panties, just black lace thigh-highs and those fuck-me heels. Her ponytail was yanked tight, makeup caked on to make her look like a slut. She caught Mario staring and gave him that mean little smile she always used when she was about to humiliate him.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” she said, voice low and calm. “You’re going to greet them at the door. Naked. Offer drinks. Then sit in the corner chair and don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Mario’s throat clicked. “Lara… we can still stop. We’re at forty-six. We don’t have to—”

She crossed the room in three strides, grabbed his chin, and forced his eyes to hers. Her nails dug in just enough to sting.

“We’re rolling tonight,” she said. “In front of them. The dice decide. If we hit fifty, the game wins. Permanently. No more pretending. You agreed to the rules.”

His cock twitched traitorously against his zipper. She felt it—pressed her thigh between his legs, ground once, slow, deliberate.

“You’re already leaking for this,” she whispered. “Strip. Now.”

Mario’s hands shook as he stripped. Shirt, pants, boxers. His cock popped out, already leaking, a fat bead of pre-cum drooling down the shaft. Lara stared at it, smirking, eyes full of that cruel satisfaction.

“On your knees until they knock.”

He dropped. The hardwood was cold against his shins. Lara stepped back, surveyed him like livestock, then walked to the coffee table and set out the velvet pouch, the six black dice gleaming under the lamp.

The doorbell rang at exactly 8:03.

Mario’s heart slammed against his ribs. Lara didn’t move. She simply looked at him.

“Answer it.”

He crawled across the floor, cock swinging between his legs, leaving a trail of pre-cum on the wood. He knelt at the door and cracked it open.

Steve stood there first—tall, blond, broad-shouldered, still in the tailored navy suit from work but with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Behind him, Leo—lean, dark-skinned, tattoos curling out from under the sleeves of his black Henley, shaved head gleaming under the porch light. Both men looked down at Mario kneeling naked in the doorway, cock hard and dripping, and exchanged a slow, knowing grin.

“Evening, cuck,” Steve said, voice smooth and amused. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Leo followed, closing the door behind them.

Mario stayed on his knees, face burning. Steve reached down, gripped Mario’s chin the same way Lara had, and tilted his head up.

“Look at you. Already leaking just from opening the door.”

Leo chuckled low. “She’s trained him well.”

Lara appeared then, hips swaying, satin whispering against her thighs. She kissed Steve first—deep, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against his while her hand palmed the front of his slacks. Then Leo—slower, hungrier, letting him bite her lower lip hard enough to make her gasp.

“Drinks, Mario,” she ordered without breaking eye contact with Leo.

Mario crawled to the kitchen, cock bouncing, balls throbbing. He poured their drinks and crawled back, tray shaking in his hands. Nobody thanked him. Lara just sipped her whiskey and grabbed the dice.

“Shall we play?”

They went to the living room. Lara sat between Steve and Leo, legs spread so her dress barely covered anything, lace thigh-highs on display. Mario knelt naked in the chair, cock hard, hands behind his back like a punished dog.

Lara upended the pouch. The dice scattered across the glass.

Location dies first.

Home.

She exhaled through her nose, pleased. “Fitting.”

Bull type.

She rolled. It landed on a custom face she’d Sharpied herself weeks ago: Both.

Steve’s hand slid to her thigh, fingers tracing the lace. Leo’s arm draped across the back of the couch, possessive.

Action die.

Full fuck + humiliation.

Lara’s pupils blew wide. She looked at Mario—green eyes, dark, glittering.

“Count the points with me, baby.”

She rolled defense for him. Blank. Three points.

Forty-nine.

One more roll.

She picked up the die again, held it between thumb and forefinger, let the silence stretch until Mario could hear his own ragged breathing.

Then she let it fall.

Blank.

Fifty.

The room seemed to tilt. Lara stood slowly, satin slipping off one shoulder, baring the top of her breast. She looked down at Mario.

“The game wins.”

Steve and Leo rose with her. Lara reached behind her neck, untied the thin straps. The dress slid down her body in a slow, liquid rush, pooling at her feet. She stepped out of it naked except for the thigh-highs and heels—breasts full and heavy, nipples dark and tight, pussy already swollen and glistening between her thighs.

She walked to Mario first. Grabbed his hair, yanked his head back.

“You’re going to watch every second,” she said. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”

She turned and walked back to the couch. Steve and Leo were already undressing—Steve’s cock thick and heavy, veins prominent, head flushed; Leo’s longer, darker, curving slightly upward, already leaking.

Lara knelt between them on the couch. She took Steve in her mouth first—slow, deliberate, lips stretching wide around his girth. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, tongue swirling the underside. Steve groaned, fisted her ponytail, and fed her another inch until her nose pressed against his pubic bone. Lara gagged softly, eyes watering, but didn’t pull back.

Leo stroked himself beside her, watching her throat work. Then she switched—pulled off Steve with a wet pop, turned, and swallowed Leo to the root in one smooth motion. Her throat bulged visibly. Leo’s hips jerked; he growled something low and filthy.

Mario sat there, cock throbbing, pre-cum soaking the chair. His balls hurt so much he thought he might pass out.

Lara pulled off Leo, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cockhead. She looked at Mario.

“Tell them how grateful you are.”

Mario’s voice cracked. “Thank you… for using my wife.”

Louder.”

“Thank you for fucking my wife,” he forced out.

Steve laughed. Grabbed Lara by the hips, flipped her onto her back across the couch. She spread her thighs wide, heels in the air. Steve knelt between them, rubbed the head of his cock along her slit—slow, teasing. Lara moaned, hips rolling, trying to impale herself.

“Beg,” Steve ordered.

“Please,” Lara gasped. “Fuck me. Stretch me with that thick cock while my husband watches.”

Steve pushed in—slow, relentless. Lara’s back arched, mouth falling open in a silent scream as he filled her inch by inch. When he bottomed out, hips flush against hers, she came almost immediately—hard, sudden, thighs shaking, pussy clenching visibly around him.

Leo moved to her head, fed her his cock again. They found a rhythm—Steve thrusting deep and steady into her cunt, Leo fucking her throat with short, brutal strokes. Lara’s body rocked between them, tits bouncing, nipples tight, skin flushed red from chest to cheeks.

Mario stared at everything: Lara’s pussy stretched around Steve’s cock, her lips clinging to him every time he pulled out, his shaft shiny with her juice. Skin slapped, drool and spit ran down her chin and dripped onto her tits. She moaned around Leo’s cock, gagging and choking, eyes rolling back.

Steve pulled out suddenly, cock glistening. “Turn over.”

Lara obeyed, ass up, face down on the cushion. Leo took her from behind—slid in deep in one thrust, making her cry out. Steve moved to her mouth again. They spit-roasted her like that for long minutes—hard, relentless, no mercy. Lara came twice more, body shaking, muffled screams around Steve’s cock.

Finally, Steve pulled out and stroked himself fast. “Where do you want it?”

“Face,” Lara gasped. “Paint my face while he watches.”

Steve groaned, ropes of thick cum erupting across her cheeks, lips, and chin. Some landed in her open mouth; she swallowed greedily. Leo followed seconds later—pulled out, aimed, and added his load to the mess, thick white streaks mixing with Steve’s across her features.

Lara stayed there a moment—ass still raised, pussy dripping, face ruined—then slowly turned to Mario.

She crawled to him, face and tits covered in cum, mascara running down her cheeks. She knelt between his legs and stared up at him, mouth open, still drooling.

“Fifty points,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “The reenactment clause is permanent now.”

She reached for his cock—still rock-hard, untouched all night. Wrapped her cum-slick fingers around it.

“Your turn to roll defense, baby,” she said. “Let’s see if you can stop this.”

She gave one slow, teasing stroke.

Mario’s hips jerked. A broken moan tore from his throat.

Morning After – Ownership Shift

Sunday morning sunlight stabbed through the blinds, making the filth in the room look even filthier. The place stank—sweat, sex, and enough cum to glue the sheets to the mattress. The bed looked like a crime scene, with Lara sprawled in the middle, naked except for one thigh-high that clung to her leg like a white flag. Her hair was a mess, stuck to her face and the crusted streaks of jizz drying on her tits and neck. Her lips were swollen, mascara smeared into raccoon eyes. Her pussy was still gaping, red and puffy, leaking a slow ooze of cum onto the sheets under her ass.

Steve was passed out on her right, his big arm thrown over her waist, hand glued to her tit like he was afraid someone would steal it in his sleep. Leo was on her left, face mashed into her neck, skin still slick with sweat. His leg was thrown over hers, keeping her spread open, because apparently even unconscious, these guys couldn't stop staking their claim.

Mario was on the floor.

He'd been banished to the floor around three in the morning, after round three—Lara bouncing on Leo's cock reverse-cowgirl while Steve used her mouth like a fleshlight, both of them treating her like a piece of gym equipment. Mario had to kneel next to the bed, jerking his cock raw, not allowed to finish. When the others finally collapsed, Lara, chin still shiny with cum, just pointed at the carpet.

“Stay,” she’d said, voice hoarse from screaming their names. “You sleep where good boys sleep.”

So he did. Naked, balls aching, cock still half-hard and leaking against his thigh after hours of being denied. The carpet left angry red marks on his knees and palms. His balls felt like they were about to explode, pain crawling up into his gut. Every time he moved, the dried pre-cum on his dick tugged at the skin. He barely slept—every time he closed his eyes, he heard Lara's moans, the slap of bodies, the grunts of the two guys fucking what used to be his exclusive property.

Now, at 9:17 a.m., Lara stirred first.

She stretched like a slutty cat, back arched, tits up, nipples hardening in the cold air. Steve's hand slid off her tit, but he didn't wake up. Lara's eyes opened, lazy and smug, and she locked onto Mario right away. Her lips twisted into a filthy, satisfied grin.

“Morning, cuck,” she rasped.

Mario's cock twitched at the insult. He hated how his dick had been trained to jump at every humiliating word out of her mouth.

Lara sat up, sheets peeling off her like old skin. Dried cum flaked off her tits and stomach in little white scabs. She looked herself over—tits, belly, thighs, all painted with the night's leftovers—and let out a low, dirty laugh that made Mario's balls clench up even tighter.

“Look at the mess they made of me,” she murmured, trailing one finger through the drying semen on her left breast, gathering a thick glob on her fingertip. She brought it to her lips, sucked it clean with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving his. “Tastes like victory.”

She swung her legs over the edge, bare feet landing right in front of Mario's face. The smell hit him—her pussy, their cum, sweat, all mixed together. His mouth watered, pathetic and automatic.

“Clean me,” she ordered quietly.

Mario hesitated for half a second, then crawled over on all fours. Lara spread her legs wider, hooked a leg over his shoulder, and shoved his face into her messy cunt. The second his tongue touched her, she sighed like she was settling into a hot bath.

He started at her thighs, licking up the crusted streaks of cum that had dried there. Salty, bitter, and reeking of her pussy. He worked his way up, slow and methodical, cleaning every filthy inch until he got to her swollen, leaking slit. Lara grabbed his hair, not soft, not rough, just in control, steering his mouth exactly where she wanted it.

“Deeper,” she whispered.

Mario shoved his tongue inside her. The taste was disgusting—thick, salty, a mouthful of her juice and the cum Steve and Leo had dumped in her. He swallowed without thinking, shame burning through him while his cock drooled more pre-cum onto the carpet. Lara rolled her hips, grinding on his face, using him like a toy while she sighed above him.

Steve woke up with a grunt, hand immediately finding Lara's tit and squeezing it like he was checking for ripeness.

“Morning service already?” he rumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Lara laughed again. “He’s very dedicated.”

Leo woke up next, lifted his head, and grinned when he saw Mario's face buried in Lara's cunt. He reached down and started stroking himself, getting half-hard just watching the show.

“Make sure you get every drop, cuck,” Leo said. “We filled her up good.”

Mario moaned into her pussy, helpless and muffled. Lara yanked his hair tighter, grinding her cunt on his face like she was trying to wipe herself clean.

“Tell them,” she ordered. “Tell them how grateful you are.”

Mario pulled back, lips shiny, chin wet, voice cracking. "Thank you for fucking my wife. Thank you for using her. Thank you for letting me clean up your mess."

Steve chuckled. Leo’s hand sped up on his cock.

"Good boy," Lara purred. She shoved Mario's face back down and rode his tongue until she came—a lazy, shivery orgasm that left her pussy even messier and his mouth coated in her slick.

When she finally shoved him away, his face was a disaster—swollen lips, shiny cheeks, chin dripping. Lara looked down at him with something that almost passed for affection.

"New rules," she said, voice still shredded from all the screaming. "The game doesn't end. Every weekend, we roll again. New places. New bulls if the dice want it. You serve. You watch. You clean up. You thank us. And you don't get to cum until I say so."

Mario's cock twitched hard, drooling a fat string of pre-cum onto the carpet. He couldn't even talk—just nodded like a good little bitch.

Lara stood up, flakes of dried cum falling off her as she moved. She went to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a black marker—the kind you use for fake tattoos.

“Hold still.”

She straddled his lap while he knelt, her wet pussy dragging over the tip of his desperate cock. Mario groaned, but Lara ignored him, uncapped the marker, and started writing across his lower belly, right above his pathetic little bush.

P

R

O

P

E

R

T

Y

O

F

L

A

R

A

’

S

B

U

L

L

S

She took her time with each letter, making sure it was big and clear. When she finished, she leaned back, checked her handiwork, and stared him down.

"You wear this until it fades," she said. "Every time you look down, you'll remember who owns your cock now."

Steve and Leo watched from the bed, both stroking themselves slowly, amused.

Lara stood up again, walked to the window, and yanked the blinds open. Sunlight blasted across Mario's freshly marked skin.

She turned back to him.

“Roll the dice for next weekend, cuck. Let’s see where we’re going.”

Mario crawled to the coffee table, legs shaking. The black dice were still there from last night. He grabbed the location die with sweaty fingers, looked up at Lara—naked, covered in cum, grinning down at him like some depraved goddess—and let it roll.

The die bounced across the table, slowed, and stopped.

Public park.

Lara's grin stretched wider, turning feral.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

Final Roll – No Escape

The city park was almost empty, the sky turning dark. The only sounds were the crunch of gravel under their shoes and the constant buzzing of bugs. Mario could smell cut grass and car exhaust. They left the main path, heading into the trees where nobody else went. No joggers, no dog walkers. Just the four of them.

Lara walked in front, trench coat barely tied, black heels loud on the gravel. She wore nothing under the coat. Mario knew because she made him watch her get dressed, coat over bare tits, nipples hard, belt tight enough to show off her body. Her ponytail bounced as she walked. She held the velvet pouch in her hand.

Steve and Leo walked on either side of her. Steve wore tight jeans and a black shirt that showed off his chest. Leo had on cargo pants and a sleeveless hoodie, tattoos covering his arms. Both of them looked like they knew exactly what was about to happen. Mario followed behind, holding the dice pouch in his sweaty hand. His cock was already leaking pre-cum, making a wet spot on his jeans.

They reached a small clearing surrounded by trees, hidden from the main path. There was an old bench with peeling paint. Lara stopped in the middle and turned to face them. The coat hung open at the top, showing the start of her cleavage.

“Last roll,” she said. Her voice was calm, almost reverent. “Public. The dice have already chosen the location. Now we finish it.”

Mario’s throat worked. “Lara… people could walk by. Anyone could see.”

She smiled—slow, cruel, tender all at once. “That’s the point, baby. Fifty points were the trigger. This is the reenactment. No more bedroom. No more pretending. We roll, and whatever comes out happens. Right here. Right now.”

Steve stepped forward, took the pouch from Mario’s numb fingers, and upended it onto the grass. The six black dice were scattered in a rough circle, red lettering stark against the green. Lara knelt gracefully—coat parting to flash the bare curve of one thigh—and picked up the bull-type die first.

She rolled.

Both.

Again.

She exhaled through her nose, pleased. “Steve and Leo. And because it’s public…” She reached for the action die, held it between thumb and forefinger for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until Mario could hear his own pulse hammering in his ears.

She released it.

Gangbang with filming.

Lara looked up at Mario. Her green eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “You film. Every second. And you don’t stop until I say.”

Mario’s hands shook as he pulled out his phone. The screen lit his face in cold blue. He opened the camera app, switched to video, and his thumb hovered over the record button.

Lara stood up and untied the belt. She let the coat fall open, showing her naked body. Her tits were big, nipples hard, stomach flat, hips wide, pussy shaved and wet. No thigh-highs tonight, just bare skin, heels, and the coat dropping to the grass.

She stepped out of the coat, naked in the open. Goosebumps covered her arms and tits. Her nipples got even harder.

Steve and Leo stripped, tossing their clothes on the ground. Both were already hard. Steve's cock was thick and heavy, veins bulging. Leo's was longer, darker, curving up, pre-cum already leaking from the tip.

Lara got on her knees in the grass. The ground was cold and wet under her. She looked up at Mario.

“Record,” she ordered.

He pressed record. The red light blinked on.

Lara reached for Steve first—wrapped her fingers around his shaft, stroked once, slow, then leaned forward and took him into her mouth. Her lips stretched wide around his girth; her cheeks hollowed as she sucked. Steve groaned, fisted her ponytail, and fed her another inch until her nose pressed against his pubic hair. Lara gagged softly, eyes watering, but didn’t pull back. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth, dripped down her chin in slow strings.

Leo moved behind her. Kneeled in the grass. His hands slid over her ass—palming the cheeks, spreading them, exposing her completely to the camera. He rubbed the head of his cock along her slit—slow, teasing—coating himself in her slick. Lara moaned around Steve’s shaft, the vibration making him curse under his breath.

Leo pushed in—slow, relentless. Lara’s back arched, mouth still full of Steve, a muffled cry escaping around the thick cock stretching her lips. Leo bottomed out, hips flush against her ass, and held there a moment—letting her feel every inch buried deep inside her.

Then they moved.

Steve shoved his cock in and out of her mouth, only pulling out enough for her to breathe before pushing back in, his balls hitting her chin. Leo fucked her from behind, hard and deep, the sound of skin slapping loud in the clearing. Lara was bounced between them, her tits swinging, nipples dragging in the grass when she bent forward.

Mario walked around them, filming everything. He zoomed in on her pussy stretching around Leo's cock, the wet shine on his shaft, the spit dripping from her mouth onto her tits, and her throat bulging every time Steve forced his cock deep.

A third figure appeared at the edge of the clearing—tall, broad, wearing a hoodie and jeans, face shadowed. He’d clearly been watching from the path. Lara’s eyes flicked toward him. She pulled off Steve with a wet gasp.

“Him too,” she panted. “The roll said gangbang.”

The stranger hesitated—then stepped forward. He unzipped, pulled out a thick, uncut cock already leaking. Lara reached for him without hesitation, stroking him while Steve fed her his shaft again.

The stranger got behind her. Leo pulled out, his cock shiny with her juices. The new guy shoved his cock into her soaked pussy, pushing in deep. Lara screamed around Steve's cock, her body jerking. The stranger fucked her hard, rough thrusts making her tits bounce and her nipples drag in the grass.

Leo moved to her side and shoved his cock in her mouth while the stranger kept fucking her from behind. Steve took the other side. She switched between their cocks, mouth wide open, hands jerking off whichever cock wasn't in her throat. Spit and pre-cum covered her chin, dripped onto her tits, and ran down her stomach.

Mario filmed everything up close—her lips stretched around their cocks, her pussy squeezing the stranger's shaft, her chest turning red, her eyes rolling back every time they slammed in deep.

Lara was the first to cum, body shaking, screaming around the cock in her mouth. Her pussy squeezed the stranger's cock, more juice running down his shaft and dripping onto the grass. She kept cumming, legs shaking, toes curling in her heels.

Steve pulled out and jerked off, shooting cum all over her face. Thick streams hit her cheeks, lips, and forehead. Some landed in her mouth and she swallowed it. Leo came next, spraying her tits and stomach. The stranger kept fucking her through more orgasms, then pulled out and dumped his load on her back and ass.

Lara stayed on her knees, body shaking, cum dripping from her chin, streaking her tits, pooling between her legs. Grass stuck to her knees and hands. She looked up at Mario, face a mess, mascara smeared, lips swollen and wet.

She crawled to him through the grass.

Knelt between his legs.

She reached up and unzipped him with fingers covered in cum. His cock popped out, purple and veiny, the head wet and leaking. She grabbed it and stroked him slow, making his hips twitch.

“Roll again next weekend, cuck,” she whispered, voice hoarse from screaming. “We’re just getting started.”

She leaned forward, took the head of his cock between her cum-coated lips—sucked once, slow, deliberate—then pulled back.

Mario looked down at his wife, naked and covered in three men's cum, kneeling in the park and staring up at him with hungry eyes.

His thumb hovered over the stop button on the phone.

The red light kept blinking.

He didn’t press it.