"Mary?"

I turn away from putting on my makeup to face him.

"Please don't do this!'

I sigh, knowing what he is asking and why. "I have to, you know that," I reply.

"I know, but I'm asking you, as your husband, as the father of our daughter, please. Don't do this!"

"I'm sorry, Paul," I say as I turn back to the mirror. "I don't know why you have to sit there and watch me get ready."

"I don't know either," he says, holding back a sniffle. "I just wish you would put this much effort in for me!"

"You know I have to make a good first impression," I say. We've been over this many times before. "This is your fault, you know that." It isn't really, but that's the argument I use to justify what I am doing.

"I know. I wish we'd never taken that vacation." I hear him sob.

"Well, we took it," I say. I finish my makeup and start getting dressed. I see him watching me in the mirror as I slip on my garter belt and put on my quarter-cup bra around my body, fastening it before turning it and nestling my breasts into the cups. I adjust them and smile at my husband in the mirror. "I love this new lingerie you bought me."

"I didn't buy it for you," he objects.

"Your credit card did," I counter. I bend and roll my stockings over my feet and up my legs, fastening the clips and adjusting them so they are just right. I glance in the mirror and see him, his eyes locked on my freshly waxed pussy peeking at him from between my thighs. "I hope my new friend enjoys the view as much as you do!" I know it is cruel to torment him this way, but I also know he'll never leave.

I move to my closet to take out the new dress that I bought just for the occasion. It is shiny, black and comes to just above my knees, with a deep neckline to accentuate my cleavage and a slit up the side to reveal my thigh and the promise that lies underneath. I think to myself, Damn, I look good for a 40-year-old! And I do. Still a size 6, same as I was in college when my husband and I met, my breasts only sag a little, and my legs are still my best feature. I retrieve my heels, shiny black with four-inch heels. Now, instead of my barefoot 5 foot 6, I tower over my husband like an Amazon woman.

"Zip me up, please," I say as I walk over to him, and he does as I ask, like the cuckold I have made of him. I feel him pet the zipper pull against my back, and I turn to him. "How do I look?" I ask, tormenting him further.

"You look lovely," he says.

I glower at him. "Come on, play the game, please." I watch as his lip trembles on the verge of melting down into a puddle of tears.

"You look hot," he says. "Hot enough to fuck all night." his voice was flat, devoid of inflection and emotion. I smile at him. Finally, he is broken, and the healing can begin.

"And that is exactly what I am going to do," I say. "And when he is finished with me, I will come back to you, and together we will cleanse my body, and you will reclaim me. Then we can talk about moving forward." I had always promised him this wouldn't last forever and that eventually, I would be his alone, just as I had been before that fateful night. And now that he is completely broken, it's time.

My phone pings, and I look at it. "My ride is here." I put on my coat, and I bend to kiss him. "You know I love you. If I didn't, I wouldn't come home every time."

"Please don't. I can't go on like this," he whispers.

I leave my quiet suburban home and walk with my head held high to the Maybach, idling at the curb. He is standing beside it, looking very handsome in his suit. He opens the door for me, and I take his outstretched hand. He pulls me in for a warm hug and a hot kiss, his six-foot-six frame towering over me. I look around to see if anyone is watching, and I kiss him deeply. No point in giving the neighbours any fuel for gossip. But it's just before midnight; it's very unlikely any of them are awake at this hour.

I get in, and he closes the door behind me before getting in and pulling slowly away from the curb. I feel the thrum of the engine in my pussy as he accelerates around the corner, and I feel myself getting wet. I pull down the sunshade and open the cover to the mirror to check my makeup one more time. "Perfect!" I say to myself as I slip the cover closed and flip the shade back up.

"Where are we going tonight?" I ask.

"A friend of mine is having a party," he says. I don't know his name, and he doesn't know mine. To each other, we are Bonnie and Clyde. "It's downtown on the rooftop of the Excelsior Hotel."

"Mmm, convenient," I reply. "Do you have a room reserved?"

"My friend has the entire top floor, including the penthouse suite," he says as his hand moves to caress my thigh just above my knee. My thighs part as if they have a mind of their own. If he wants to, he can finger me as he drives. Sadly, he chooses not to, so I cross my legs, trapping his hand. I lean my head back and wonder if his will be the only long, thick, black cock I will suck tonight.

We arrive at the party, and he escorts me past the security guys. The flashing lights and the pounding beat thrill me as I look around. I am the oldest woman here by at least a decade, but I know I look as good as any of the others. I really believe that, given the choice, most men would rather fuck a married woman than a single one. I adjust my rings so everyone can see the size of the settings as I grip my glass of champagne in my left hand. I take Clyde's arm, and he leads me through the gathered guests, nodding and raising his glass occasionally as we move.

"Ah, there you are," he says, stopping in front of a tall, gorgeous black man. "This is my friend, Bonnie. Bonnie, this is my mate, Patrick."

"It's nice to meet you, Patrick," I say, raising my glass to touch his. He smiles and nods.

"I've told Patrick all about our... situation," Clyde says. "I've also told him about your... attraction to men like us. He thought maybe you'd like to get to know him."

"You weren't kidding, mate," Patrick says. "You are stunning!" He leans in and kisses my cheek, and I feel myself flush. What 40-year-old woman wouldn't love to be referred to as stunning by such a handsome younger man?

We mingle for a bit, probably a half hour or so and then Clyde takes my hand and leads me inside. He leads me across the large living room to a hallway with about a half dozen doors, and my pulse quickens. I know that we're going to get down to my reason for being here very soon. I can hear the unmistakable sounds of others enjoying each other's intimate company as we pass some of the doors, and then we arrive at the last set of doors. Clyde pushes the double doors open to reveal a large bedroom with a huge bed and a hot tub. The room is warm, and I can see the steam rising in the dim light. I hear the door close behind me and turn to see Patrick turning the lock.

Clyde takes me in his arms and asks me the same question he always asks me before we begin our carnal encounter. "Do you want this?"

I look into his eyes and smile before turning to Patrick and reaching out to him. "I want this," I say to both of them. "I want all of this!" My arousal builds as the two handsome men undress me, taking each piece of clothing and folding it neatly before laying it on the nearby sofa.

Once I am naked, each one takes a hand and leads me up the three steps to the ledge surrounding the hot tub. They steady me as I get in and then retreat. Clyde remains clothed as Patrick undresses. I can't tell if he does it deliberately, but I can't see him as he lowers his pants. He turns, and I gasp at the sight of the longest and thickest cock I have ever seen, and it isn't fully hard yet. My pussy clenches as I think about it filling me, as I've never been filled before.

He climbs the steps and steps into the water, sitting beside me. He turns to me, and we kiss, his strong tongue pushing into my mouth. I reach for him and clasp my hand around his shaft. I immediately notice that my fingertips do not touch as I squeeze him and then start stroking him slowly. He moves his mouth to my breasts, as every black man I've ever been with has done before him. As one told me a few years ago, black men love titties! And I love that they do!

I push my chest forward, willing him to suckle harder on my nipple, and I groan loudly when he does. After a few minutes, he moves and takes me by the waist, urging me to sit on the ledge. I am thankful for the warmth of the room as I look down my body at him, my skin wet and shining. He moves between my thighs and bends forward, putting his tongue to good use as he licks my pussy. I look at Clyde and wink at him, sending my usual signal for him to get my phone from my purse and start capturing my debauchery to show my husband after I get home. He moves around us to get the most advantageous angles.

I take Patrick by the sides of his head and urge him up my body. We kiss again, as hard and intensely as I've ever been kissed. "My turn!" I whisper as I slide into the water and he takes my place on the ledge. I check that Clyde has my phone at the ready, and I move my face toward him, opening my mouth and extending my pink tongue to lick the hard, dark shaft from base to tip. I run it around the fleshy, pliant head a few times before opening as wide as I can and descending onto him.

As much as I'd love to take him into my throat, I know that it is impossible. I've never been able to go all the way down on one of my large lovers like I used to do to my husband. Oh, how I would love to be able to show him that image! I do my best, and he seems to be enjoying my efforts. "Oh, fuck, Baby! Damn, you cougars sure do suck good cock!" I take my mouth off him and look up.

"Hotwife, not cougar!" I correct him. "A cougar is a divorced woman who seeks out younger men for sex. I am a happily married woman who seeks out younger men for sex!" I smile up at him and resume sucking his cock.

"So happily married that you're here with us and not at home with your husband?" Clyde asks, knowing the answer.

I take my mouth off him again. "It's complicated!" I grin and open wide once more. I hear the shutter click from my phone as Clyde captures my infidelity. Hubby will both dread and enjoy these ones.

After a few minutes, Patrick pulls me up to him, and we kiss again. "I want to fuck you!" he growls.

"And so you shall, my good man, but not here." I stand up and take his hand, and we help each other out of the tub. We dry each other off, and then I take his hand to lead him to the giant bed a few steps away.

I turn to kiss him and then push him onto his back. "Time for this cowgirl to ride!" I leer as I climb up over him. I reach down and grasp his shaft, positioning it at my opening, and then look into his eyes as I lower myself down. "Look at me!" I command. "Watch me fuck you! Watch me cum all over your thick black cock!" I feel him stretch me as his cock enters me. It's the most delicious feeling ever!

"Mmm, Yes! That's what I'm talking about! Fill that married white pussy right up, big fella!" I feel him bottom out against my cervix before his balls touch my ass. I am disappointed, but the night is young. I begin moving slowly, my stretched cunt accommodating him little by little. I look over my shoulder to see Clyde with my camera. I smile and blow my husband a kiss and wink at him. Then I return my attention to the magnificent man underneath me and his magnificent cock!

I continue to move my hips, working him deeper and deeper with each downward stroke. I can feel the stretch as he widens and lengthens my canal, and there it is! I feel his balls against my ass as I hold myself onto him. I look at him and smile. "I knew I could take everything you could give me!"

"Maybe we need to switch up so I can give your married white pussy a proper fucking!" he growls as he tries to push me off him.

"Don't let your mouth write checks your cock can't cash!" I reply as I roll off him and onto my back. I know by now that Clyde has switched my phone to video, so I start performing a little for my husband's benefit. I lift my legs high and invite him in. "Come on, Big Man! Fuck that wet pussy!"

He moves in and fills me with one strong stroke. I feel his hands firm on my hips as he takes hold. I hope he leaves little bruises with his fingertips the way Clyde does when he takes me this way! I push back against him, and we soon find a rhythm, our bodies moving in erotic syncopation. I look over at Clyde and wiggle my fingers for him to come closer. He leans down and kisses me. "I need your cock in my mouth!" I pant as my arousal builds. Ever the cooperative lover, he grants me my wish, holding the phone to capture the ravishing of my body by these two virile black men. My husband may not like the video, but I will make very good use of it as I fuck myself with my favourite BBC toys while I reminisce about this night.

Clyde, being shorter and not so thick as Patrick, slips into my throat with ease as Patrick pounds his cock into me. I am in Hotwife Heaven as the two men take and use my body. When I first heard the term 'spit roast', I thought it rather indelicate and unappealing, but after seven years as a hotwife, it has become my favourite position. The feel of a big, thick cock in my cunt and one in my throat thrills me as I have never imagined.

I can hear Patrick's breathing, and I know he is close. I sink my hand underneath me to feel his cock sliding in and out of me with one fingertip while another teases my clit. Clyde senses I am close, so he pulls his cock out of my throat and just fucks my mouth with the head and a little of his shaft. He knows from experience that, when the time comes, I will take him back into my throat as he fills my belly with his spunk.

Patrick comes first, driving his thick cock hard into my cunt and filling it with what seems like gallons of cum. I can feel it shooting into me, one long firm stream after another. It feels hot inside me, and I can feel it running out of my pussy and down the insides of my thighs. I hold myself back onto him, willing him to regain his composure so he can start fucking me again. I spit out Clyde's cock. "Don't stop! Keep fucking my cunt! I need to cum so bad!" He starts moving again, and I take Clyde back into my mouth.

I don't last long as he pounds into me. Ah, the virility of youth! My poor husband was only ever a once-a-night man, which is part of the reason we are in the predicament we're in tonight. He knew I needed more than he could give me, and after experimenting with progressively longer and thicker toys, our fantasies turned into him sharing me with other men. It was fun at first, but then we made the mistake of inviting a black man with a nine-inch cock into our bed and my addiction was born. For the last seven years, I regularly sought out men with long black dicks to fuck me while he watched. Then he said he didn't want to watch me do that anymore. The problem was I had no intention of stopping. I knew I was addicted, but I found a way to blame someone else for it, and I blamed him because it was originally his idea.

But I've sworn to myself that tonight is the last night, and I want to go out with a bang! Pun intended.

I cum as hard and as long as I ever have as he fucks me. I lose control and flop onto my stomach, causing him to slip out of me, but before I can protest, he adjusts and starts prone boning my wet cunt. Over and over, my pussy gushes until the bed beneath us is soaked, and we are too.

After a while, I recover and remember that I still have Clyde's cock to suck. I love sucking cocks almost as much as I love fucking them, and I always save my best for my favourite lover! Clyde and I have been an item for almost five years now, and while I've taken other lovers, he is the one I am drawn back to. I get back on all fours and take him into my mouth again, immediately gobbling him hungrily into my throat. He never lasts long like this, and tonight is no different. A minute after I swallow him, I hear him groan, and his hips come forward. I draw back to take a deep breath through my nose and go back down just as his cum shoots straight into my belly. I take it eagerly, loving the pulse of each shot as it spurts out of him.

I come back off him slowly and flop onto my back, bathed in sweat and my chest heaving as I catch my breath. Clyde moves to kiss me, and I share the tangy taste with him, just as I will do with my husband when I get home. Patrick draws lazy circles around my breasts with one fingertip, and I sigh contentedly, knowing I've kept up with my two young studs.

"I need to clean up," I say to them as I get up and head to the shower. Part of me hopes that one or both of them will follow me in there, but I am disappointed. I feel the sore spots on my hips where Patrick had gripped them to fuck me, and I know that by the time I get home there will be five small bruises on each side for my husband to see. I wash slowly, remembering the feeling of being double stuffed, probably for the last time. Well, maybe once more!

I emerge from the washroom wrapped in a fluffy white towel and take the glass of champagne from Patrick's hand. I touch my glass again to theirs and take a sip. The bubbles tickle my nose a little, so I sit on the couch and look at them.

"You said things with your husband are complicated," said Patrick.

"They are, and they're none of your business," I tell him. "Let's just say that he made me into the woman I am here tonight."

"I'm sorry, I was just curious what makes a beautiful married woman want to be with men other than her husband. I'm not complaining, mind you; I'm just curious."

I take a deep breath. "Sometimes, I wonder about that myself," I say. I sip my champagne and get the feeling the mood has soured. My problem is that, even though I have just had the stuffing kicked out of me and sucked my boyfriend's cum down my throat, I'm still horny. I look over at Clyde and stand up, dropping the robe on the floor behind me. "I have an idea!" I lean in and whisper to him, and following my directions, he lies back on the bed. I move over him, reverse cowgirl, and lean forward to expose my backside to him. He takes the bottle of lube from the nightstand and applies it, preparing my bum for his invasion.

I lower myself onto him, his thick cock filling my asshole as I take him in. Once he is fully inside, I lie back on top of him and look at Patrick, crooking my finger at him to come forward. "Fill my white, married cunt!" He responds instantly to my command, taking his longer, thicker cock and pushing it into me.

"Fuck!" I moan involuntarily, not as a command but as a reaction to the stretch I am feeling. I've been double-stuffed before, using toys in combination with a lover's cock, but never by two real cocks and never by anything so thick. It is just short of painful, but I want this to be my husband's last indignity. When I go home, I will show him the semen dripping from both my holes, and his torture will be complete!

The discomfort lessens as my body becomes accustomed to the dual intrusions, and I relish the feeling of being completely full. My body was made for this, and I find myself thrilled that it has taken my addiction to make it happen. We all start moving, and after a few unfortunate slip-ups, or more correctly, slip-outs, we find a rhythm. Once again, I am in Hotwife Heaven as both men fuck me, slowly at first but then more quickly as they coordinate their movement. You know what they say about black men and rhythm, and these ones certainly live up to the stereotype!

Despite having cum recently, both men are soon on the verge once more. I beg them, plead with them, scream at them to fuck me hard and deep and fill me with their hot cum! Nothing else can fulfill my craving.

Clyde cums first, my tight ass too tight for him to hold off any longer. Patrick follows in short order, and their orgasms trigger mine, and I am a screaming, writhing mess as my body convulses from their onslaught. If any woman in history has ever been so well and truly fucked into orgasmic oblivion as I have just been, lucky her!

Patrick moves away, and I roll off of Clyde, my body bathed in sweat and shaking with the aftershocks. I make my way to the washroom, picking up my dress as I pass the chair where Clyde has so thoughtfully and carefully placed it, leaving my underthings behind. I have no intention of wearing them home. I emerge, and Clyde is dressed, understanding that it is time for me to leave them. He hands me my lingerie, and I take it, placing the bra, garter and stockings into my bag before going to Patrick and handing him my thong. I breathe into his ear, "Your cock is magnificent! Thank you!" I kiss him deeply. Then I turn to Clyde. "Take me home, please?"

"Of course," he replies, and he takes my hand, leading me through the penthouse suite. I feel the stares of the other partygoers: I know they have heard my screams, so I put on an air of contentment as I pass them. I can feel the envy from the women and the jealousy from the men. I can feel their cum running down the inside of my thighs as I walk, spreading thin where my thighs touch and cooling them as it dries. I hope there is enough left inside me to show my husband when I get home.

I ride in silence, and when we arrive in front of my house, I see it is completely dark. I find this unusual, as Paul always leaves the light in the front foyer on for me. I turn to Clyde and smile at him. "We have had so much fun, but I think our time is over." I lean over and kiss him. "Thank you!"

"It has been our pleasure!" he replies, and he gives me one last kiss. "If you change your mind, you know how to get in touch!" We kiss again, and I get out, my leaking pussy leaving a wet trail on the leather seat. It's not the first time it's done that.

I get out of the car, close the door and blow my lover a kiss, sad that this might be the last time I ever see him. I walk up the walkway and unlock the door, calling out in a singing voice as I enter, "Honey! I'm Home!" I hear nothing in reply. "He must be asleep," I think, and I walk to our bedroom. Empty. Then to the downstairs lounge. Nope. I search the house, and he is not there. I take out my phone to text him, and I see the large envelope leaning up against a vase filled with fresh flowers. Nervously, I pick it up and see it is addressed with a single word: "Mary".

I pick it up and slip my finger under the flap to open it. Inside is another envelope and a white card with a single flower on the front. I open the card and read the script in my husband's impeccable handwriting.

My darling Mary,

I take my share of the responsibility for how our lives and our marriage have evolved over the years. It was my idea for you to go with these men; it was my fantasy at the time, and I talked you into it. For that part, the blame is mine alone.

At first, I was thrilled for you. Watching those long, hard black cocks penetrate you made me hard, and I had no shame in masturbating to the scene. Many times, I shot my cum into a washcloth and even occasionally onto your body and your face as they fucked you, and you seemed to love it all! I thought we had the perfect life.

And then, the fantasy faded, and I realized that, for me, it had run its course. It didn't happen suddenly, but I got less and less pleasure from watching you each time you were with them. And so I asked you if it was time for us to stop living that way. Your response surprised me.

I held on, hoping that my pleas would somehow have an effect, but each time I begged, you seemed to redouble your efforts. It seemed to me that with each encounter, it became less about you achieving the pleasure that you sought and needed and more about hurting me. Perhaps I am wrong on that score, but that's how it felt.

The first time you called me your cuckold in front of one of them - Clyde was his name, I think- it broke my heart. Still, I stayed, hoping beyond hope that your love for me would be enough to convince you to come back to me. But your addiction was so strong; your commitment to being a 40-year-old hotwife was more than my love could conquer.

So here we are. As I told you last night, I cannot do this anymore. It tears me apart inside to know that when you go with these men, they can give you something you crave, something I cannot give you. So I'm moving on and hoping that someday, my heart can heal.

With this card is a set of documents. You know what they are, and now, you have a choice to make. If you make the decision I hope you will make, you will return those documents to the address on the envelope, unsigned. If you decide to sign them, I will be out of your life forever. Please open the envelope and read the documents. I think you will agree that the terms are more than fair. Then think long and hard about your decision. Let it never be said that you made your decision uninformed.

You have until the end of the month, 15 days. If I do hear from my lawyer that you have returned the documents with your signature, our marriage will be over, and you can carry on letting black men with long, thick cocks fill your mouth, your throat, your cunt and your asshole (yes, I know you have let them fuck your ass!) for the rest of your days. But if you have a shred of love for me still, you will not sign them, and soon we will resume our lives as husband and wife, the way I feel it was meant to be. I promise that if you choose me, I will help and support you with your addiction and recovery, and no one else will ever know what you are. Even after everything, I can freely make that promise to you wholeheartedly.

I love you, Mary. I always have, ever since the first time you kissed me. I always will, no matter what you decide. The fate of our future is in your hands. Choose wisely.

Your ever-loving husband,

Paul

P.S. I gave you lilies for two reasons. First, because they are your favourite. Second, because lilies are what you give when something dies.

I read the letter three times until my tears stained the paper. This time it was me who had fucked up. I let it go on too long, and along with breaking his spirit, I broke his heart. I never once, in all the time I cheated on him, in all the times I rubbed it in his face, figuratively and literally, thought that he would ever leave me.

I suddenly feel nauseated. I run to the bathroom and throw up violently, over and over until there is nothing left in me. I look into the bowl and see the champagne, the finger foods and the cum I have swallowed over the past eight hours. None of it was distinguishable, but I know it is there. And for the first time since that first night I had taken a black lover, I feel shame.

All Paul ever did was love me. And to repay him, I embarrassed and subjugated him, caring only for my own needs and desires. He is the sort of husband and father any woman should dream of. I am unworthy of him.

I feel my stomach clench, and I vomit again, tasting only bile. I stand up to rinse my mouth and see myself in the mirror. I am lust, gluttony and greed, personified. I am disgusted with myself.

I feel the cum drying on my thighs and seeping from my cunt. That's what it is: a cunt to be used by men. Not a pussy to nurture and provide pleasure, not a vagina to bring life into the world, a cunt. I get in the shower still in my dress, ruining it. It doesn't matter; I only ever bought it to go out on my dates, and now I want nothing to do with it. I tear it from my body and throw it on the tile floor, leaving bright red marks where the fabric pressed hard against my skin before yielding.

I begin to wash myself, hoping to wash away the shame even as I know it cannot be washed away with mere soap and water. I take the wand and direct it to my cunt, opening my legs and opening it further with my fingers so the water can get all the way inside and wash out the remains of my deceit. Ordinarily, I would orgasm in less than a minute when I directed the warm streams to it, but not this morning.

Finished, I dry myself and walk naked back to the dining room table where the letter and the envelope lie. I pick both up and carry them to my bed. I re-read the letter, and by the time I am finished, I am sobbing, great heaves shaking my body. I cry myself into a fitful, troubled sleep.

When I awake, the sun is setting. My illicit activities of the previous night and the early morning, combined with the realization that I am nothing more than a cum-slut and a whore exhausted me. I have slept, but I am not rested. I might never feel rested again.

I steel myself and open the large envelope containing the terms of my impending divorce. Paul told the truth; the terms are fair, far more so than I deserve. I read his letter one more time, and one more time, my heart breaks over what I have done to him. It hits me that I still love him, and I find myself hoping that I might fall in love with him again in the future. I have not been in love with him for a very long time. Suddenly it hits me that I no longer crave long, thick, hard black cocks in my mouth or my throat or my cunt. All I crave is to be in love with my husband.

I go to my closet and take out all of what, from this point forward, will be referred to as my 'slut clothes', piling them on the floor for disposal. I could donate them; some of them are very expensive, but I cannot bear the thought that some other woman might be infected with the shame I have put into them. I dress in simple cotton underwear and a sports bra, pulling on casual slacks and a flowered top. I look at myself in the mirror and still see the cheating, conniving hotwife, but inside her is a typical suburban housewife. I hope my husband will see the latter and not the former if and when I see him next.

I go to my makeup table and take out a sheet of fine, cream-coloured paper and begin writing my response.

My dearest darling husband,

I am sorry.

I stop there as tears flow again, dripping onto the paper and splotching the ink. I think to start with a fresh sheet but decide not to; perhaps my tears will convince him of my sincerity. I have a hard time finding the words, but once they start, they flow quickly from my fingers through the pen and onto the paper.

I have wronged you, horribly. I see now that all you wanted was for me to be happy, to be fulfilled and sexually satisfied. And I admit that I was more satisfied than any woman has any right to expect.

I am a hotwife, a whore with a wedding ring, a harlot. I blamed you, but it is not your fault, not really. The fault is mine. Certainly, you led me to that path and at first we both seemed thrilled as we went down it. But I became addicted, and that is my fault alone. You did not force me into anything; I went willingly. Over and over and over.

I will not lie and say I did not enjoy it. I did, immensely. Being with them thrilled me, excited me, and made me feel wanted and desirable. But you also made me feel those things, and I forgot that. I'm not sorry that I went with them. Being with a man, or in my case, many men like them, with long, hard, thick cocks that shoot massive amounts of semen into their bodies, is something every woman should experience. It is the ultimate in sexual pleasure, and I am not sorry that I had those experiences.

My sorrow and regret come from the way I treated you. You did nothing to deserve it, and for that I am truly and unreservedly sorry. I fear I will never be able to repay you for the hurt and pain I have caused you.

Twenty-four years ago, we made promises to each other, and the only time I have ever broken any of them was at your urging. The first time. I have loved you, but I have failed to honour, cherish and respect you in the way you deserve. I broke those vows, and I regret it.

So I come to this decision. Do I still crave big black cocks? Yes. That sort of addiction is not one a girl can just quit. Not without help. You have promised me that help, and I will take you at your word.

I hope you were honest in your letter when you said those things. I will not sign those documents, and I still want to be your wife, if you will have me. I hope that someday you can be my lover as well. My only lover. I will strive to be the woman you deserve, although somehow, I'm not certain I can be. That will be for you to determine.

If you will have me.

I still remember the day we made our vows, and I will make them here again today in this letter. I will make them to you every day for the rest of both our lives if need be.

Do I, Mary, take thee, Paul, to be my lawful wedded husband? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or for worse, to love, to honour, to cherish, to respect, and to obey, forsaking all others, for so long as we both shall live?

I do.

Without reservation or doubt in my mind, I do.

If you will have me.

I love you, Paul.

I am so sorry.

Your loving wife,

Mary.

I reread what I have written. "I hope that will do," I say to myself as I fold it and put it into the large envelope with the documents I have not and will not ever sign.

I look at the address and promise myself I will take them there by hand first thing tomorrow.

I go to the kitchen and make myself some tea, taking a large garbage bag to our bedroom and filling it with my slut clothes. I empty my dresser of the various bits of lingerie I have collected over the years because I know I bought them for other men's benefit, not for yours. I carry it to the garage and deposit it into the trash bins and realize I don't even know what day I have to put them out for collection. Paul always did that. As bad as I have treated him, I realize that I have taken him for granted. Another sin to atone for.

I manage to eat and have a glass of wine. I watch a little TV and then go to bed. I am still tired after recent events. My problem is that I am horny and still craving black cocks. Usually, on nights when I didn't have a date, I would fuck myself silly with one of my many toys. A lot of them are shaped like my lovers. But I can't bring myself to do even that. I dig deep in my toy box and find it: the replica Paul and I made of his cock just after we got married. I remember how we laughed when we made the mould and mixed the silicone. I take it and rub the shaft along my slit, wetting it before teasing the head around my clit. I slip it in slowly and realize that I can barely feel it. Clyde and Patrick have stretched me open so much I couldn't even feel it if my husband were here.

I resign myself to rubbing it along my clit, the imperfections in the homemade toy stimulating it. It's not what I crave, but it will have to do. I manage to achieve orgasm, but it takes me much longer than usual. Hopefully my cunt returns to a size where I can feel my husband if he ever decides to fuck me again.

The next morning, I take the envelope containing the documents and my letter of contrition to the address typed on it. "MacLean, MacLean, and MacLean, Attorneys at Law," the sign reads. I hand it to the receptionist and leave without saying a word. Now the waiting begins.

I hear nothing from them or my husband for three days. Each day I move like a zombie, losing what little hope I have. At night, I repeat my ministrations with the replica of my husband's cock, hoping that soon I will be able to feel it. The improvement is almost undetectable.

On the fourth day, my phone buzzes. My heart leaps to see it's from my husband! I open the message and read only four words: Do you mean it?

I weigh my reply. My first instinct is to write a novel, apologizing profusely and pledging my undying love to him, but he'll see right through that. He knows that's not me. I think and decide.

I do.

I wait, and he responds. That is the only acceptable answer. Well done. I'll be in touch.

I am thrilled! Again, I think to text him a long message, but just before I hit send, I stop. No, the ball is in his court now. So I wait.

And wait. For four days. I have lost hope again. A hundred times a day I pick up my phone to text him, but every time I resist. On the upside, I don't think about black cocks as much. I do think about his cock, and I am starting to feel it when I fuck myself with it at night. Silver linings.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, I arrive at home to see him sitting in our living room. I squeal, first from fright, then from glee as I drop my purse and run over to him. He puts his hand up and says firmly. "STOP!"

He has never once, not in 24 years, used that tone with me. I didn't know he had it in him. It kinda turns me on a little. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

"I'm not ready for that yet." He motions for me to sit, and I do.

"Okay, when you are ready, I'll be here," I say timidly. I wait, but he says nothing.

I look at my husband. "I am so sorry, Paul. Truly I am. I love you, but I need help. You promised you'd help me."

"I always keep my promises," he says. Emphasis on the 'my'. I hear it for the insult that it is.

Over the next six months, I go to therapy; sometimes he comes with me. I make a great show of collecting all my lingerie and toys and throwing them away. Except for one, I'm keeping that one. As we lie in bed at night, I recount the details of every time I was unfaithful, those that I can remember, as I stroke his cock. I stop masturbating, denying myself in the hope that he will someday let me love him the way that I want him to. But I can't convince him to make love to me, not yet. This goes on for another few months until the anniversary of the first night he shared me with another man.

I arrive home from work to the smells of my favourite dinner: roast turkey with all the vegetables, stuffing and gravy. Two bottles of wine, one white, one red, sit in a chiller beside the table. Candles are flickering, and there are fresh flowers on the table, roses and carnations, the same as what he brought me for our first date. My breath catches at the care he has taken and the attention to detail.

"Ah, you're home! Good! Let me take your coat! If you want to go freshen up, dinner will be on the table in about three minutes."

I take a few moments to compose myself. I put on a light coat of lipstick, something I haven't worn in months, and brush my hair. I am disappointed with the strands of silver in my dark red locks. I will need to remedy that soon.

I return to the dining room to see him setting a plate in my place. He then makes his own and sits not at the far end of the table, but beside me. He takes my hand and squeezes it softly. "Thank you for coming back to me. When I look at you now, I see the beautiful woman I married, not the ugly thing you were during those awful times."

I choke back tears. Is my nightmare over? "Oh, Paul! Does this mean you forgive me?"

"I will forgive you once you have forgiven yourself," he replies.

"I'm trying," I whisper.

"Eat," he says. "Eat and nourish your body. After, we can maybe start to heal."

I am as happy as I have been ever since that awful night I came home to an empty house. I take my eyes off him only so that I don't miss my mouth with my fork. I clean my plate, and once he is finished, I get up to clear the table. "I'll do that," he says, rising to his feet. He comes close to me and places one hand on my cheek, drawing my lips to his. I haven't been kissed in months. His lips touch mine, and I feel his tongue flick against them. I open my mouth a little to accommodate it, but it goes no further. Still, I am thrilled.

Our kiss breaks, and I look at him. "That was very nice!" I say, repeating the words I said the first time he kissed me.

He smiles at me. "On our bed are three packages. There are tags to tell which to open first. Open it and follow the instructions I've written. When you are ready, call me. I'll clean up here while you're gone." He kisses me again, more firmly this time, and I reciprocate. It is a long, delicious kiss that sets my heart racing.

I go into our bedroom to find more candles and flowers; he's going all out. I see the three packages: one white box, one black bag, and a gift wrapped on paper so blood red that just seeing the colour alone should be a sin. I read the tag that tells me to open the box.

I carefully lift the lid and fold back the paper to see a collection of fine lingerie with a note on top. Choose one of these outfits and put it on. Put on your makeup the way you used to when we were first dating. Wait for me on the edge of the bed; I will come to you when I am finished in the kitchen.

I lay the outfits out separately; they are identical: one in pure white, one in black and one in a shiny royal blue. I haven't worn white lingerie since our wedding night, and I always wore black when I went to see my lovers, but I have never had blue. I chose that one, putting the others in the box and closing the lid. I look at it closely: a corset with dangling straps for the matching stockings, a bra, a garter and a thong. Paul has always liked photos of women in bustiers and corsets, so I choose it and the stockings, forgoing the bra, garter and thong. I place them in the box and go to the ensuite washroom to prepare myself.

I wash my face, removing what little makeup I had on and check my grooming. I find myself wishing that he'd given me some forewarning so I could have gone to the spa. My pubic hair is sparse, not the thick bush I used to have, because I've spent the best part of 20 years getting waxed, but the hairs that are there are wild and unruly. I curse myself for neglecting my grooming as I take a washcloth to moisten the area before taking a fresh razor and removing it all. I feel myself getting wet when I remember the first night he helped me remove my pubic hair, both of us giggling as he tried so very hard not to nick or cut me. I also remember the wonderful love we made when he was finished. That memory makes me wetter still.

I rub myself to check that I have gotten it all, and my finger brushes my clit. My hips twitch, and I am tempted to play with myself, but I resist. Then I move to my dressing table and start applying my makeup. I keep it understated, as I used to, and purposely avoid the garish bright lip stain I used to wear for my lovers. I paint my lips a soft pink, applying three coats to ensure full coverage. Then I take up the corset and put it on. It is a little tricky to get adjusted just right, but I am pleased with the result, as I see it has cinched my waist a little and my breasts bulge over the top, threatening to spill out. I look in the mirror before bending to roll the stockings up my legs and clipping them carefully. I then find my shoes, not my 4-inch slut shoes, but my 2-inch pumps. These will raise me so our faces are at equal height.

I sit on the bed and resist the temptation to open the other gifts as I wait for him. I look at my nails, wishing I'd gotten them done, but they were good enough for now.

Finally, he enters, and I stand to greet him. "My God, Mary, you are so beautiful!" he breathes as he sees me. "Excuse me while I go get ready." He goes into the bathroom, returning a few minutes later dressed in silk pyjamas of the same colour as my lingerie. "I was hoping you'd choose the blue; it brings out the colour in your eyes so perfectly." He comes to me and takes me in his arms and kisses me, softly at first but then more firmly as his want heightens. "Have you forgiven yourself yet?"

"Not yet," I say. "Soon, I hope. He nods, and we sit on the bed, our sides touching. He reaches and hands me the black bag. I open it and turn it upside down. A dual-headed vibrator and a butt plug fall onto the bed.

"These toys are not yours; they are ours. Promise me you will not use them without me."

"I promise, darling!" I am beyond excited. It appears that finally, he is going to let me give myself to him, and the presence of the plug with its jewelled blue end tells me that he wants me to give myself to him completely. I know I will do this without hesitation. I feel myself grow wetter at the prospect. I take up the rabbit and bring it to my lips, kissing it before handing it to him. "I hope you will use this on me tonight!"

"Oh, I will, darling, and you will love it! But before I do, you have one more gift. I warn you, if you open it, I will use it and will show no mercy. You say you are over your addiction, and this will put that assertion to the test. If you choose not to open it, I will discard it, and we will never speak of it again."

"Do I have to decide right now? Or can I decide later?" I am trembling with excitement at this point, and it makes my voice shaky.

"You have to decide before we go to sleep tonight," he says. I nod to show that I understand. "Alright then." He stands and pulls me up with him. "Undress me."

I carefully undo the buttons on his shirt, starting at the top and working my way down. I push it back and look at his chest: he's been exercising, and it shows. He is muscular again, and my pussy clenches at the sight. I drop to my knees and slowly pull down his trousers, the tip of his rock-hard cock catching in the waistband and flicking upward when it is released, brushing my cheek. He steps out of them, and I watch his cock as it bobs up and down with his heartbeat. I look up, and I don't see the passive cuckold he used to be. He is the strong, virile man I fell in love with. He takes my hand and helps me to my feet.

"Do you trust me, Mary?" he asks.

"With my life," I reply, my breathing becoming heavy.

"There is one more thing you must do before we start to heal. Can you imagine what that might be?" I nod. "You have to say it."

I clear my throat. "I have to give myself to you, wholly and completely, and you have to reclaim me." He kisses me deeply.

"Exactly." He places his hands on my shoulders and pushes down. I am on my knees again. "Suck it. Suck my cock! Take it into your throat and swallow it! Do it now!" His voice is a command I cannot refuse. I open my mouth and take him in, slowly at first and then deeper. I am out of practice, and I hope he will be gentle with me. I feel him fill his fists with my hair. "I said in your THROAT!" he growls, and he pushes my head onto him. He holds it there until I struggle to breathe before he relents. He pauses and pushes his cock into my throat again. Over and over, he does this, and I love it. He needs this. I need it too.

He suddenly pulls his cock from my mouth and pulls me to my feet. "On the bed on your hands and knees!" he commands, and again I obey. He moves behind me, and I feel his hand move up along my pussy, spreading the wetness before he enters me.

"Fuck me, Paul!" I moan. "Fuck me and reclaim me as your own!"

He proceeds to do just that, and I am over the moon with happiness and lust. He rams into me over and over as I cheer him on. I gasp as he pulls out, and I feel a cool sensation on my ass cheeks. He opens them with his hands and lubricates my tiny back door.

"Yes, Paul! Fuck my ass! It is yours for the taking, yours forever!" I feel pressure as he touches me and slowly enters my behind. It is not painful, but there is some discomfort as he fills my bum with his hard cock. My screams echo through the house, and I wonder briefly if anyone outside might hear me. I decide I don't care. "Fuck me, Paul! Fuck my ass! PLEASE! I NEED THIS! WE NEED THIS!"

Our bodies make loud, almost obscene slapping noises as he pounds into me. He barks at me, "RUB YOUR CLIT!" and again I obey. I reach down and start rubbing as he fucks my ass. I am in heaven, a committed, monogamous wife's heaven as my husband reclaims me. I can feel the sin and shame driven out of me with every thrust. I wish our sex life had been like this many years ago; we might not have gone down the path we did.

I can tell he is close from his grunts and groans. They are unfamiliar to me; it has been so long, but each slap of his hips against my ass cheeks brings the memory back. "Fill my ass with your cum, darling, and you will have reclaimed me for your own! Show me no mercy! Use me! FUCK ME, DARLING! FUCK MEEE!"

I scream as our orgasms hit, my pussy gushing as he fills my bum with his spunk. Before, his body would stiffen when he came, but tonight, he just keeps on fucking, pounding into me as wave over wave of pure bliss fill me and explode.

Finally, he slows and removes himself from me. He rolls me over and moves over top of me, and we kiss, deeply and lovingly. I am breathing as though I'd just run a marathon, but I manage to speak. "Thank you darling Thank you! That was amazing! You are amazing! I am so lucky to have you!"

He smiles and kisses me softly. "Have you forgiven yourself yet?" I smile at him and nod. "Then you are forgiven."

I clutch him to me and start sobbing, all the emotion that has filled me these past months pouring out of me. He holds me as I weep, waiting for my body to stop shaking. Eventually, I calm down, and I kiss him softly.

"Paul, darling? Is that other gift what I think it is?"

"I'm sure you've guessed by now."

I smile and nod. "I don't want to open it. I want to keep it as it is, placed on my nightstand as a reminder of the hurt I have caused you and our wonderful reunion. Will you do that for me?"

He smiles and nods. "Thank you," I say. I push him off me. "Will you do me a favour?"

"Anything," he says.

"Go into the washroom and wash your cock. I owe you a blowjob!"

He smiles and leaves, returning a moment later to see me on my knees in the center of the room. He comes to me, and I open wide, taking him straight into my throat.