The thought of it still sends shivers down my spine. His hands, rough and demanding, gripping my hips as he takes me from behind. I’m bent over, my ass exposed, completely at his mercy. The room is filled with the sound of our bodies slapping together, the scent of our sweat mingling with the faint aroma of the artwork on the wall. I’m his anal slut, his plaything, and I can’t get enough. And there’s something about the way he uses me, so raw and primal, that makes me feel alive. I’m not just his lover’s whore; I’m his possession, his property. Every thrust, every moan, is a reminder of my place. I’m the one who betrayed my husband, who let another man claim my ass, and I fucking love it.
From Loving Wife to Anal Slave: A Husband’s Humiliation
The transition was seamless, almost natural. From being the loving wife to becoming the anal slave of my lover, it was a journey of submission and pleasure. My husband’s friend, the one who always had a hungry look in his eyes, became my master. He took me with a ferocity that left me breathless, his cock filling me completely. I was his to use, his to degrade, and I reveled in it. But it’s not just about the physical act. It’s about the power, the control, the way he makes me feel like a worthless slut. And I crave it. I crave the humiliation, the degradation, the way he makes me beg for more. It’s a high unlike any other, a rush of endorphins that leaves me dizzy and wanting more. I’m his anal slut, his whore, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The image captures it perfectly. The way my lover’s hands grip my hips, the way my body arches in submission, it’s all there. The tattoo on my arm, a symbol of my devotion to him, is visible, a mark of my ownership. I’m his, completely and utterly, and I love every fucking minute of it. So here I am, a hotwife, a slut, a whore, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. The way he uses me, the way he claims me, it’s everything I ever wanted. And as I look at this image, I can’t help but smile, knowing that I’m his, forever and always.








