Boss Listens as Bull Breeds His Wife

I sat at my cramped cubicle on the fifth floor, staring at the same quarterly report I’d been pretending to edit for twenty minutes. My name is David. Thirty-one, balding at the temples already, earning just enough to keep the lights on in the two-bedroom apartment Emily and I rented. My wife, at twenty-eight, still turned heads everywhere she went. Long auburn hair, wide green eyes, full breasts that strained against every blouse she owned, and an ass that made my coworkers forget their own wives’ names. She had started as my assistant two years ago. Now she worked directly for Marcus.

Marcus didn’t ask. He commanded. Six-foot-four, deep voice that carried across the entire open-plan office, and the kind of presence that made every man in the room unconsciously straighten his spine. He was also the reason my wife had been “working late” three or four nights a week for the past five months. I knew what was happening. I had known almost from the beginning.

It started with the way he looked at her during staff meetings—open, hungry, possessive. Then came the comments, always loud enough for me to hear from three desks away.

“Emily, sweetheart, when is your husband finally going to man up and put a baby in that gorgeous belly? A real man wouldn’t leave a woman like you empty for this long.”

I would sit there burning, saying nothing. Because I already knew she was sending him nudes. I had found them on her phone one sleepless night—her on her knees in our bathroom mirror, lips wrapped around a thick black dildo, captioned Practicing for something better. Another of her spreading herself on our marital bed with the words Waiting for a real cock to breed me.

I never confronted her. The shame was too thick, too sweet. It had become the secret pulse of our marriage.

Last Thursday was the final performance review of the fiscal year. Marcus made me sit in the chair beside Emily while he tore my department apart. Every weakness, every missed deadline, every quiet failure was laid out in that deep baritone. Then he leaned back in his leather chair, steepled his fingers, and smiled at my wife.

“Emily, your numbers are outstanding. You’ve been carrying this whole floor. But let’s be honest—your home life is clearly holding you back. A woman with your body and ambition should already be pregnant. Instead you’re stuck with a husband whose pathetic little load can’t even get the job done.”

My face burned. Emily’s thighs pressed together under her pencil skirt. I saw the flush crawl up her neck.

Marcus continued, “I’m keeping you on my team. But we need to discuss your future. Stay after five. David, you can go.”

I stood on shaking legs and left the executive suite like a dismissed child.

At 5:17 my phone buzzed. A picture appeared.