After catching her husband cheating, $name1 straps on a thick cock, bends him over their marital bed, and fucks the apologies out of him until he begs.
$name1 found the texts on a Tuesday. Hotel receipts. Photos of some blonde’s tits in a lift. Her husband Mark — thirty-four, accountant, soft around the middle — had been fucking a temp from his office for six weeks.
She did not scream. She did not cry. She booked an Amazon delivery for a thick purple strap-on, a bottle of lube, and a pair of leather cuffs. She was twenty-eight, married six years, and she had never topped him. That was about to change with surgical precision.
Thursday night she cooked his favourite pasta. Smiled. Poured wine. When he came through the door, loosening his tie, she kissed him like nothing was wrong and led him upstairs.
“Blindfold,” she said sweetly, holding up a silk scarf. “I want to try something. Trust me.”
Mark grinned, flattered, already half-hard. She tied it tight, stripped him, and cuffed his wrists to the headboard of their marriage bed — the same bed where he had texted the temp *wish you were here* while $name1 slept beside him. She oiled the strap-on harness against her hips. The silicone cock jutted thick and slightly curved, nine inches of deliberate revenge.
“What’s that?” he whispered when the head nudged his hole.
“Payback,” $name1 said, and pushed.
He yelped. She worked him open with patience that was not kindness — slow thrusts, more lube, her hand on his cock so he stayed hard through the burn. When he was stretched and panting, she fucked him properly: deep snaps of her hips, the harness slapping his arse, her nails in his back.
“You cheated on me with a girl from accounts,” she said calmly, driving in. “I saw the photos. The hotel. Her tits. So now you get my cock in your married arse until you understand who you belong to.”
“Fuck — $name1 — I’m sorry — God —”
“Sorry isn’t enough.” She angled for his prostate and watched him shake. “You’re going to come with my strap in you. Then you’re going to thank me. Then you’re going to delete her number while I fuck you again.”
He came first — untouched, cock jerking against the duvet, a ruined, sobbing orgasm that painted their sheets. $name1 kept thrusting through it, relentless, until he was oversensitive and babbling. Only then did she pull out, unclip the harness, and sit on his face so he licked her dripping cunt while she held his phone and deleted every message, every contact, every hotel booking confirmation.
“Good boy,” she murmured, grinding down. “Now eat me like the cheating cunt you are.”
He did. Eager. Desperate. She came on his tongue with a sharp cry, thighs clamped around his ears, then uncuffed him, left the blindfold on, and straddled his cock the traditional way — riding him reverse so he could feel every bounce of her arse without seeing her face. She was soaked from the power. His dick slid in easy. She fucked herself on him hard, using him, taking what she wanted while he gasped her name like a prayer he no longer deserved.
“From now on,” she said, bouncing, “when I want your arse, I take it. When I want you to watch me with someone else, you watch. When I want you on your knees with the strap in your mouth, you open wide. Understood?”
“Yes — fuck — yes, $name1 —”
She came again, cunt clenching, and milked him until he flooded her. She stayed seated, full of his come, and finally untied the scarf. His eyes were wet. Hers were cold and bright.
“Go shower,” she said. “Then bring the strap-on and the lube into the living room. We’re not done. I want to fuck you over the sofa while you apologise properly — full sentences, no excuses — and if I like what I hear, maybe I’ll let you come a second time.”
Mark stumbled to the bathroom. $name1 wiped the purple cock clean with a tissue, smiled at her reflection, and poured herself another glass of wine. The temp could keep the hotel rooms. $name1 had the harness, the cuffs, and a husband who would never look at another blonde without remembering the stretch of silicone and the sound of his own begging.
She left the leather cuffs on the pillow like a wedding vow rewritten in filth. Tomorrow she would wear the strap under her dress to dinner with his parents — just the harness, cock tucked up — and every time Mark shifted in his chair she would smile and squeeze his thigh under the table. Revenge, she decided, tasted better when it came with aftercare and a schedule. Friday nights would be pegging nights. Saturdays he would cook. Sundays she might even forgive him a little, if he asked nicely with his mouth full.
$name1 finished her wine, stretched, and waited for the sound of the shower stopping. The purple cock gleamed on the duvet. She was already wet again thinking about the sofa. Cheating wives, she thought with a private laugh, were supposed to be the ones on their backs. Tonight the rules had flipped — and Mark was going to learn every new one with his arse in the air and her name in his throat.
