Lately, I can't stop thinking about the look on your face while you're down on your knees, forced to watch me get absolutely destroyed. There is nothing more pathetic—or more arousing—than a husband sitting in the corner, desperately rubbing his worthless little cock while I'm moaning louder for another man than I ever have for him. It's degrading, sure, but we both know how much you crave that humiliation.

Your tiny, inadequate hardware just doesn't compare to the heavy, dark steel of a real man. He stretches me wide, hitting spots you didn't even know existed, leaving me a complete mess while you watch from the sidelines. Your only "redemption" is when I finally let you crawl over to lick me clean. You get right down there like the little cum-whore you are, sucking every drop of him out of me, finally realizing you'll never be enough to satisfy a woman like me.

You only have yourself to blame. You're the one who opened the door for the BBC that turned my world upside down, and now that I've had a taste of the exceptional life, there's no going back. Accept your place. You're nothing but a walking wallet, a puppet on a string who takes orders and says "thank you" for the scraps. I'm the one in control now, and I think it's time you admitted how much you love being nothing.