I love the way you look at me.

The way your eyes flash up from the floor to meet mine – just for a second –
before you cast your gaze back down in shame. And then, inevitably, you
glance at him.

I sometimes wonder which of us you want to be. Him, the strong, muscular
man with dark, coffee-and-cream colored skin and a long, thick cock. Or is
it me you’d rather be? I’m the one being impaled over and over by that
powerful man until I scream and writhe and beg. I wonder if you even know
the answer yourself.

When we notice you again, after, he laughs and shakes his head. You shiver
under his contemptuous regard. He doesn’t understand why you do what you
do. Why you are content merely to watch and tremble and hope, waiting for
what little scraps we throw you. After all, you’re the husband. You’re the
breadwinner, the man of the house. And look at you, on your knees,
listening to your wife scream her pleasure as she fucks your black gardener.
You aren’t even allowed to watch. Not yet.

I understand. Oh, I do. You and I both know that you aren’t like him.
He’s strong, powerful, and confident. A single glance from him gets me
wetter than you’ve ever managed in our entire marriage. He is the
consummate alpha male. He is everything you pretend to be but aren’t. When
he makes me beg, you want to beg, too. Beg to be like him; beg to be able
to fuck like him. Or maybe just to be fucked by him.

In the end, the closest you can get to that fantasy is to taste him on me
after he leaves. It’s the only time I allow you near my pussy anymore, and
you know that’s the way it should be. My pussy is a place reserved for real
men who can please me the way I deserve. The way you can’t and never could.
Maybe next time, I’ll let you raise your eyes, and let you watch it as he
fucks me with that big dark cock of his.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

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