Hubby's Humiliation: Wife's BBC Bull Claims Her in Their Marriage Bed

I never thought I’d be the kind of man who got hard watching another man ruin his marriage, but here I am—David, twenty-eight, five-foot-nine, and cursed with a dick that barely reaches four inches on a good day. Megan, my wife of three years, is the kind of woman who turns heads without trying: long auburn hair that falls in waves down her back, full breasts that strain against every top she owns, and an ass so round and firm it makes my mouth water even after all this time. For the first two years of our marriage I tried—God, how I tried—but every time I slid inside her she’d give me that polite little smile and pat my shoulder like I was a puppy who’d done a decent trick. The sex was always over in minutes. She never came. Not once.

Until Marcus.

He’s thirty-two, built like a linebacker, with deep ebony skin and a cock that looks like it belongs in a porn studio instead of between a mortal man’s legs. Nine and a half thick inches of veined, heavy black meat that curves upward and makes Megan squirt so hard she soaks the sheets. She started seeing him four months ago, at first in hotels, then in his apartment. She stopped pretending with me weeks ago. She’d come home with that glazed, well-fucked look in her eyes, kiss me on the cheek, and whisper, “Marcus stretched me again, baby. I can still feel him inside me.” My little prick would twitch pathetically in my pants every single time.

Tonight the tension finally snapped.

We were in the living room after dinner. Megan wore a tiny white silk robe that barely covered the bottoms of her ass cheeks. Her nipples were hard and visible through the thin fabric. She was texting, smiling that wicked little smile she only gets when she’s talking to him.

“Marcus wants to fuck me in our bed,” she said without looking up. Her voice was casual, like she was announcing the weather. “He says it’s time he claims what’s his. In the bed where my pathetic husband has been failing to satisfy me for years. What do you think, David?”

My throat went dry. My cock—my tiny, useless cock—jumped in my boxers and started leaking.

“Megan… that’s our marriage bed.”

“Exactly.” She finally looked at me. Her green eyes were bright with lust and something sharper—contempt mixed with affection. “He’s tired of sneaking around. He wants to fuck me where you sleep. He wants you to watch. And I want it too. I’m done pretending your little white dick does anything for me.”

She stood up, letting the robe slip open. Her shaved pussy was already glistening. She stepped close and cupped my face with one hand while the other slid down to squeeze my pathetic bulge.

“Feel that?” she whispered. “That’s what your wife’s pussy does when she thinks about a real man. Not this sad little thing. Marcus is coming over in twenty minutes. You’re going to sit in the corner like a good boy and watch him ruin me in the bed you bought me for our wedding. And if you’re very lucky, I might let you clean up after.”

My heart hammered so hard I could hear it in my ears. Shame flooded me, hot and thick, but so did a desperate, aching arousal I couldn’t hide. My cock was rock-hard in her hand—barely filling her palm.

“Yes,” I whispered, voice cracking. “Please.”

Megan’s smile was radiant. She leaned down and kissed me softly on the lips, almost tenderly.

“Good boy.”

She spent the next fifteen minutes teasing me without mercy while she texted Marcus the address and instructions. She made me stand in front of her as she sat on the couch, legs spread.

“Take it out,” she ordered.

I pulled my boxers down. My little dick sprang free, flushed pink and dripping. She laughed softly, not cruelly, but with genuine amusement.