I’m Allison, and I don’t do soft. I don’t do polite. I don’t do “maybe we shouldn’t.” When I decide I want a married man, I take him. And then I make damn sure his little wife sees exactly what she’s lost.
Last night I sent her the pictures. Not the carefully cropped ones. The full set. The ones where her husband’s cock is buried in my throat, my mascara running, my lipstick smeared across his shaft. The ones where I’m bent over the hotel desk with his wedding ring still on his finger while he rails me so hard the lamp shakes. The ones where I’m sitting on his face, thighs clamped around his ears, looking straight into the camera with that lazy, victorious smile that says your husband eats my pussy better than he ever ate yours.
I made sure her number was still the emergency contact on his phone. One tap. Send. No caption needed. The images did all the talking.
She opened them. I know she did, because twenty minutes later the messages started. Screaming. Begging. Calling me every name she could think of. I screenshotted every single one and forwarded them back to him while I was still dripping on his sheets. He got hard again reading how destroyed she was. Of course he did. They always do.
I told her the truth, because why the fuck not. That her husband has been in my bed for three months. That he told me she hasn’t made him come in over a year. That he likes it when I call her a pathetic little housewife while I’m riding him. That the night of their anniversary he was balls-deep in my ass instead of wherever she thought he was. That he said my cunt feels tighter, wetter, better. That he likes the way I look at the camera and smile while he’s still inside me, knowing those pictures are going straight to her.
I told her I keep a folder. “Wife’s Tears.” Every broken message, every late-night call where she begs him to come home, every time she asks if he still loves her. I read them out loud to him sometimes while he fucks me. It makes him thrust harder. It makes me soak the sheets.
She tried the classic line: “You’re a homewrecker.” I replied: “And you’re a placeholder. He only stays because the divorce would be expensive. The second the paperwork is done he’s moving into my apartment and I’m going to fuck him on every surface while you cry about it on Instagram.”
Then I sent one more picture. Me, naked, on my knees, holding his phone up so she could see the screen. Her own message thread open. Me smiling. His cum still on my tongue.
She blocked the number after that. Cute. I just used a different one the next day and sent the video of him telling me he never loved her the way he loves the way I take cock.
I don’t feel bad. Not even a little. Her tears make my pussy throb. Knowing she’s at home staring at the same pictures her husband came all over last night makes me wetter than his dick ever could. I like knowing she’s broken. I like knowing every time he touches her now she’ll see my face. I like knowing he’ll keep coming back because I give him the filth she never would.
So yes, little wife. Those pictures are for your husband. And the next ones will be even worse.
Keep crying. It only makes me want him more.