Living Room Handjob: Wife’s Secret Promise

Her hand moves with practiced ease, gripping his cock firmly. The sight of her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders as she leans forward, her breast exposed, is a stark reminder of the promise she broke. I watch, my heart pounding, as she strokes him, her glasses perched on her nose adding a layer of nerdy allure to the scene. The room is quiet except for the soft sounds of her hand on his flesh, a rhythm that echoes the betrayal I feel.

The Promise Shattered

She promised she’d never fuck any of my close friends. But nobody mentioned hand jobs. Her bracelet glints in the ambient light as she moves, a stark contrast to the darkness of my thoughts. The couch cushions shift beneath her as she adjusts, her leg draped over him, claiming her territory. I’m a silent observer, my presence unacknowledged, a ghost in my own home.

My Silent Torture

The pillow beside her is a mocking reminder of the comfort I once found here. Now, it’s a stage for her performance, a testament to her skill and his pleasure. Her sleeveless top rides up, exposing more skin, a tease that’s meant for him, not me. I’m the cuckold, the one who watches and waits, my desires secondary to her whims. The room is a prison, and I’m the inmate, sentenced to this silent torture.Her eyes meet mine briefly, a flash of defiance and desire. She knows I’m watching, knows the power she holds. And in that moment, as her hand continues its relentless motion, I realize the depth of my submission. I’m not just a cuckold; I’m a willing participant in my own humiliation, bound by the chains of her desire and his pleasure.