What can I say? Marital faithfulness was a cute phase — like bangs or Pilates. But let’s be real: I was never built for boring. Somewhere between his limp dick and my continued hotness, I bloomed into precisely what I was always meant to be — a cuckold phone sex queen ready to get what I want whenever I want. I thrive on attention — the kind that turns heads and ruins marriages. Men light up when I walk in, desperate to be noticed. My husband? He dims like a dying bulb. He used to try, bless him. Now he watches, all sad-eyed and silent, while I strut past with someone else’s scent on my sticky thighs and a smirk on my lips. I don’t lie. I don’t need to. When my husband sees me getting ready, slipping into a dress that barely covers my bits — he knows. He smells it. He sees it. He swallows it down (we are both swallowers) with whatever’s left of his pride. I lean in close and ask, “Jealous?” And when his eyes drop, I twist the knife: “You should be. He actually made me cum until I was dizzy.”
I don’t cheat for love — don’t insult me. I cheat for the thrill, the body worship, the mind-blowing fucking and sucking. I do it because when a man half my husband’s age calls me a goddess, I remember who the hell I am. I’m not some meek, miserable wife. I’m the reason men lose sleep. The reasons they lie to their wives. My husband? He gets what’s left — lipstick on his pillow and echoes of moans that weren’t for him. He thought he could own me. He forgot that I am a cuckold phone sex slut and don’t belong to anyone. Especially not to a man who sniffs my used cummy panties after I get railed by strangers.
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