stretched and wrecked

ISADORA POV

The canvas seemed like it was mocking me.

I had been standing in front of it for an hour and all I'd managed to create was a mess of dark colors that looked like a bruise.

My small art studio was supposed to be my sanctuary. The one place where I could lose myself in color and form.

It was the place I could forget that I was married to a fucking gay husband, where the outside world faded away and only the painting mattered.

Today however, I couldn't focus on anything but him.

Richard…

My father-in-law.

It has been three days since he'd left me on my knees, covered in his cum, denied and aching. Three days of his command echoing in my mind, forbidding me from touching myself.

It's been three days of suffering and pure torture.

I dipped my brush in burnt sienna, intending to work on the landscape piece a client had commissioned. Instead, my hand moved on its own, sketching broad shoulders and then…

"Fuck," I muttered, stepping back to look at what I'd unconsciously created.

It was him.

Although the sketch was not detailed enough to be recognizable to anyone else, I knew.

I was painting my father-in-law while my pussy throbbed with need.

This was pathetic. I was becoming pathetic after having a taste of aged wine.

I set down my brush and walked to the small kitchenette in the back of the studio and poured myself water with shaking hands. My phone sat on the counter.

I grabbed it, checking for the hundredth time today.

There were no new messages. Not like he has been texting frequently.

Richard hadn't texted me since that night when he gave me that command to dream about his cock.

The waiting was torture not knowing when I would see him again and when he'd finally give me what I needed. My body was wound so tight I felt like I might shatter at the slightest touch.

I'd almost broken his command last night. I almost touched myself in the shower, my hand hovering between my thighs while water cascaded over my sensitized skin.

I had managed to stop myself ,remembering the dark promise in his eyes.

“When I finally do wreck that tight little cunt, you'll come the second I push inside you.”

I have been holding on to that, looking forward to having my cunt stretched and wretched by his thick veiny cock.

In my moment of absentmindedness, my phone buzzed and I nearly dropped it in my haste to check.

It was from a number I recognised so well.

“ Family dinner is approaching, wear something that shows off those tits.

Remember, no panties.”

My breath caught and heat flooded through me, my thighs clenching together as my pussy gushed with wetness.

Sunday was four days away. Four more days of this desperate, aching need.

Me: Yes, Daddy.

I set the phone down and pressed my palms against the counter, trying to steady my breathing.

Family dinner meant seeing Richard across the table again.

It also meant sitting next to Marcus while Richard eye-fucked me.

It meant playing the dutiful daughter-in-law while my father-in-law's command to go without panties made my pussy drip.

I couldn't wait nor could I paint anymore today. Not like I had done anything substantial except daydream about my father-in-law cock sliding in and out of my tight walls.

I cleaned my brushes, my mind already racing ahead to Sunday. What would I wear?

Definitely something that would make Richard lose his mind.

Something that would make him want to bend me over the dinner table in front of everyone.

By the time I locked up the studio and drove home, the sun was setting. The house was dark when I arrived and I realised that Marcus wasn't home yet.

He was probably with his lover, I thought bitterly.

I didn't care anymore, not after what happened with Richard.

If my husband preferred sticking his rod into such places, who was I to be mad when I could get his father to fill my pussy with his cum and ruin me?

After a quick bath, I changed into a silk robe and padded to the kitchen to make dinner.

I was making something simple. I wasn't hungry for food anyway.

I was plating the salad when I heard the front door open.

"Isadora?" Marcus called out.

"In the kitchen," I responded, not looking up.

He walked in, and the first thing that hit me was the scent.

I had smelled it before on him…always after his "late nights at the office."

The scent of his lover.

That mental reminder made something twist in my chest.

It was not jealousy of course. At this point, I was past that.

Instead, I felt anger and resentment that he could be out there living his truth while I played the perfect wife for his charade.

"You're home early," I pointed out, my voice flat.

I was used to his late night work excuses.

"I need to talk to you about something," Marcus said, loosening his tie. He didn't even try to hide the hickey on his neck.

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"There's a gala next month," he continued, pulling out his phone and scrolling through it while he talked.

“ The company is hosting it so I need you to come with me." He informed me.

I set down my fork slowly. "Come with you as what?" I asked.

Marcus looked up, seemingly confused.

"What do you mean?"

"I should go to the gala with you as your what, Marcus?" I repeated, my voice sharper now.

His frown deepened.

"What kind of question is that Isadora? You are my wife, my partner."

I chuckled bitterly.

"Wife?" I repeated, the word sounding ridiculous on my tongue. "Have you ever seen me as your wife in the two years we've been married? Or do I just play a certain role in your life, one that you never actually informed me about?" I fired back, not bothering to hide the disappointment in my voice.

Two fucking years, he made me a fool.

Marcus's expression shifted and something between guilt and irritation crossed his features.

“Isadora, don't be dramatic."

"Dramatic?" I stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. "You want me to play the loving, devoted wife at your gala while you can't even look at me how a husband looks at his wife.”

"That's not…"

I didn't let him finish.

I walked toward him slowly then gripped the edges of my robe and pulled it open, exposing my cleavage.

"It's been two years, Marcus. When are you ever going to fuck me?" I asked shamelessly.

I watched his eyes…watched them flicker down to my exposed skin and then away quickly, disgust flashing across his face before he could hide it.

At that moment, I saw it; the truth he would never say out loud.

He reached up and pulled my robe closed, his hands careful not to touch my skin. "Isadora, I'm not in the mood…" He started, using the same line I have heard in the past two years when I tried to initiate anything intimate.

"You're never in the mood," I cut him off, my voice cold. "Not with me, anyway."

Marcus's jaw clenched. "This isn't the time…"

"Then when is the time, Marcus?" I stepped back, crossing my arms. "When are we going to stop pretending? When are you going to admit what this marriage really is?"

"Isadora…" there's was a hint of warning in his tone. Be sounded annoyed or is it irritated?

"So am I," I interrupted.

“I'm not in the mood to play the loving wife in front of everyone.” I declared.

Silence fell between us.

Marcus looked away first. "I'll tell them you're not feeling well. That you can't make the gala." He said in a small voice.

“ You can say whatever you see fit.” I replied, not bothering to be subtle about my attitude towards him.

He turned to leave, then paused at the kitchen doorway. "I am sorry.

I know this isn't what you signed up for." He said quietly, not looking back.

"At least you have the conscience to realise that.” I scoffed.