I stare at the image, my heart pounding. There she is, my wife, her upper body sprawled out, a gold chain with a pink flower pendant resting on her chest. The sight of it, the way it glints under the artificial light, is almost normal, almost comforting. But then my eyes drift to the rest of the scene, and my stomach churns. The sheer amount of semen, glistening and thick, spread across her breasts. It’s a stark reminder of what she’s been up to, of the pleasure she’s taken from someone else. The caption at the bottom, her words, cut deep. ‘WOW! It’s so much more cum than my boyfriend’s little spurts!’ She’s going to make me lick it off, without telling me. The thought of it, the humiliation, the thrill, it’s all mixed up in my head. I can’t look away, can’t stop imagining the night ahead, the taste, the sensation, the knowledge that I’m just a pawn in her game. It’s a game I can’t win, but I can’t stop playing either.

