The anklet glints in the soft light, a silver shackle around her delicate ankle. It’s a constant reminder, a trophy of sorts, that she’s not just mine. My wife, the slut, sits there, legs crossed, her black mini skirt riding up to reveal more than it conceals. Those high heels, fuck, they drive me wild. She’s turned slightly away, her head tilted, hand casually resting on her thigh. The couch cushions hug her curves, accentuating every line, every shadow. And there, in the background, the table cluttered with her things—lipsticks, perfume bottles, a half-empty wine glass. It’s all so fucking domestic, so normal, yet so fucking twisted.
My husband loves me for dating and fucking black men, would you like to make him happy.