I met Kelly at a house party. She was pure 80s sex: skin-tight jeans, loose top, black bra flashing every time she moved. Those big 38D tits swayed when she danced, and that round ass begged to be grabbed. Brown hair halfway down her back, brown “fuck-me” eyes, 5'8", maybe 135 pounds—soaking wet—she still looked tiny next to my 6'5", 245-pound frame.

We kept trading glances across the room until some drunk asshole got too handsy. One swing from him, one punch from me, and he was snoring on the carpet. Kelly’s eyes lit up like I’d just hung the moon. She brought me a cup of punch, we found a dark corner, and her hands were on me before the ice melted.

We made out like teenagers in every corner of that house. When she couldn’t get into the bathroom, I offered my apartment, only a couple of blocks away. I carried her the last stretch, her legs wrapped around my waist, giggling into my neck.

The second we were inside, she bolted for the toilet. I did a five-second panic-clean, then waited on the couch. When she finally came out—hair fixed, lipstick fresh—I pulled her onto my lap and finger-fucked her to two screaming orgasms. She came hard, thighs shaking, but when I reached for my belt, she stopped me.

“Don’t hate me. I don’t fuck on the first date."

Blue balls be damned—I smiled, kissed her forehead, and said I’d drive her back to campus. Halfway there, she leaned across the bench seat, unbuckled me, and pulled my cock out like she’d been starving for it.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, eyes wide at all 8½ thick inches. “This thing’s as big as my wrist.”

Then she swallowed me like her life depended on it—way past the head, gagging, drooling, trying to take every inch. Best blowjob of my twenty-two years. I lasted maybe three minutes before I flooded her mouth. She gulped it all down and licked her lips like it was candy.

Eight months later, we were married.

On our wedding night, she knelt in front of me, still in her dress, veil pushed back, stroking my cock through my tux pants.

“Tonight, you fuck me like one of the sluts in your magazines,” she said. “Mouth, cunt, and my virgin ass. All of it. I’m yours.”

She sucked me until I painted her throat, she swallowed every drop, then lay back on the bed in white stockings, garter, and bra. I ate her shaved pussy until she screamed, curled two fingers against her G-spot, and made her squirt all over the hotel sheets. Then I climbed on top and fucked her deep and hard while she clawed my back and begged me to put a baby in her.

She rode me next—slow, filthy circles until she came again—then we filled the jacuzzi. While the water ran, I dropped behind her, spread her cheeks, and licked her tight little asshole for the first time. She moaned like a porn star, pushing back, begging for more. I worked one finger in, then two, scissoring her open while she rubbed her clit raw.

“Please, baby,” she gasped, handing me the lube, “take my virgin ass.”

I pressed the fat head against that perfect rosebud and eased in. She whimpered, trembled, and came just from the stretch. Once her ring relaxed, I fucked her slow and deep, then harder, until she was squirting on the bathroom tile and I pumped the biggest load of my life into her clenching ass.

That was night one of the rest of our lives.

We both landed good jobs—me at the mine, her with the feds. We banked her whole paycheck and lived on mine. At home, she turned into a 50s housewife with a porn-star twist: she cooked, cleaned, and kept my balls drained every single day. My nightstand was always stocked with fresh Hustler and Penthouse Letters. She’d hand me one, drop to her knees, and edge me while I read the dirtiest stories out loud.

Right after our second anniversary, she started getting bratty—on purpose. The third time it happened, I snapped, yanked her over my lap, and spanked her bare ass cherry-red. She cried, kicked, then soaked my thigh and begged me to finger her harder. When she came, she thanked me for “teaching her her place.”

That flipped the switch.

We devoured every domination story we could find. Made our own rules. Bought collars like other couples bought jewelry—her first was a pink leather choker with rhinestones that locked around her throat. She wore it under her work blouses and beamed every time someone asked what it was. The week before our third anniversary, she jerked me off to a Hustler story about a husband bringing home a woman and making his wife clean them both up. Kelly looked me dead in the eye and said, “That’s what I want for our anniversary. Bring some bitch home, fuck her senseless, and make me lick every drop out of her.”

I called her friend Katie—thick, loud, massive G-cup tits, always flirting with me. Told her the plan. She was in before I finished the sentence.

I left Kelly at home with orders to edge herself all night, bedroom lit with candles, snacks and drinks ready, wearing nothing but a black shelf bra, thong, thigh-highs, and heels.

Dinner with Katie was quick—she spent half of it squirming because my fingers were already inside her under the table. In the car, she came on my hand, then tried to suck me off on the drive home. I held out—Kelly had drained me that afternoon just to make sure I could last.

We walked in, Kelly waiting in the corner like a perfect little toy. Katie smirked, snapped her fingers, and Kelly hurried over with drinks.

I ate Katie on the couch while she taunted Kelly: “Your husband’s tongue is magic—bet your pussy doesn't taste this good.”

Then I carried Katie to our bed, stripped her, and fucked her hard while Kelly watched from the doorway, thighs glistening. Katie came on my tongue (twice), then screamed through two more when I finally slid inside her. I lasted exactly long enough to dump a huge load deep in her cunt. I rolled off. Kelly crawled between Katie’s legs without a word and licked my cum out of her dripping pussy while Katie came a fifth time on my wife’s face.

That night sealed everything.

From then on, I had full permission—and Kelly begged me to use it. I fucked whoever I wanted. I made sure Kelly came every single day, usually multiple times.

Three days after Katie, I had just fucked her ass again, she rolled over, kissed me, and whispered, “Thank you, Daddy.”

She was pregnant.

For the next thirty-five years, she called me Daddy in private, wore my collar in public when I told her to, and never once denied me anything. She was the perfect wife, the perfect slut, the perfect submissive.

I was the luckiest bastard on earth the day I punched that drunk for her.

I knew it the day I met her, until her passing.

— Daddy