I sat and watched in the armchair.

Mascara ran down my wife’s face as I watched her sink to her knees beside the bed.

Six men stood around her, like some ritual she’d been starving for her entire life.

She took them eagerly, desperately, like she never wanted it to end.

Moans filled the room. Grunts. Heavy breathing. Then came the mess of release splashing across ruined lipstick and trembling skin.

Her wedding ring caught the light.

And somehow, through the tears, the humiliation, and the hunger burning in her eyes…

She had never looked more beautiful to me.

“Please,” she whispered, "again".

Not to me.

To them.