Slutwife Novels & Stories

He had found me repulsive and ran off to rekindle things with the woman he had once been set up with. We had been married for ten years, yet my husband had been cheating on me for nine of them. Liam fell silent, and Matilda finally gathered the courage to speak. "Beatrice, please don't blame him. I was the one who insisted on having the baby. He only helped me because he felt sorry for me." That made it even more absurd. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to laugh. "What exactly is pitiful about you?" I questioned. "My husband makes 50 thousand dollars a month, but he gives me five thousand dollars and 20 thousand dollars to you.

Cumslut. That’s who I am. I’ve been called plenty of things: slut, whore, fucktoy, pornstar, cocksucker, and gangbang queen. But cumslut sticks to me like sweat after a hard fuck. It isn’t an insult. It’s a crown. You don’t get it by accident. You have to earn it, and I’ve mastered every skill it takes to be a true slut. At twenty-five, I know exactly what it means. I’m the woman men ache for when their wives fall asleep. I’m the body they crave when restraint shatters.

The sharp click of her 5-inch heels echoed through the lobby. She stopped in the center of the hall, her expression unreadable as she looked at the still little figure on the floor. "Still putting on a show? Is this what Howard taught you—how to fake sympathy? You really think that if you act pitiful enough, I'll soften up? Keep dreaming." Each word cut through me like a blade, stabbing my soul again and again. I wanted to scream—how could she? How could she believe such cruelty of her own child? My boy was gentle, obedient, innocent… Tears spilled onto his face.

Her fingers thrusting in and out fast and hard over and over as Fiona grunted and moaned over and over, "OHHHH! It's your cunt, Mistress. You and my Master own this pussy!" "That's right, cunt, it's ours. Who owns you orgasms Slut? Who do your screams and cums belong to?" "YOURS MISTRESS MY ORGASMS ARE YOURS AND MASTERS!" "Are they your Orgasms Slut?" "UHH UHH UHHH NO MISTRESS!" "That's right they aren't and you will never have one unless we give you permission if you do we will punish you. You will not call them yours again or we won't let you have one do you understand me Slut?"

I drop the fake whimpering instantly, my voice turning flat, venomous, and dangerously sharp. "You called me—your husband—to deliver a threat because of a glorified grease monkey? Is he really that good in bed, Violetta? Is that what this is? Has a few weeks in a cheap loft completely degraded your standards to the point where you're begging for a man who smells like exhaust fluid?" A sharp, audible breath hitches on her end of the line. I can practically feel the wave of disgust rolling through the phone, but before I can double down on the insult, her voice cuts back in, lower and deadlier than I have ever heard it in my entire life.

Lena and I have been seeing each other ever since… and sometimes our husbands get to watch the filthy things we do together. I went from a straight married woman to a complete bisexual slut who craves her pussy almost as much as my husband’s cock. And I’ve never been more satisfied.

Every room was filled with a puck bunny either having a dick choking them while another nigga fucked her from behind or being eaten out while fingering another bitch; for the men that love to watch the show. “Take it all in slut… oh you are just a nasty slut, aren't you? My nasty slut” Husbands bring their wives here to get turned on.. apparently some mother fuckers enjoy watching another man pound into their wives while staring at her. The ecstasy was out of this world and it was only the slut house that can take any man or woman from being impotent or unable to be pleased by their partners to having their cum all over the floors and walls of the room.

This was my life and I had made peace with it. That's not me being dramatic. I mean it genuinely. I was thirty-two years old, a junior partner at Hargrove and Sloane, the legal guardian of a three-year-old who drew cats on everything, and I had not been on a date since the Obama administration. But I had a routine that worked. I had a daughter, not biologically, not legally in the strictest sense, but mine in every way that mattered — and I had a job I was good at, and I had an apartment with enough counter space to actually cook, which I had learned to value more than I ever expected.

My need pressed against my skin and my lungs that my breath became uneven. Heat spread through me, low and slow, settling deep between my thighs. I clenched and unclenched my fists slowly , breathing in slowly to get myself back, my wolf was already scratching to be let out, I haven't had sex since I came here , my hands were the only thing that gave me pleasure. I swallowed hard and opened my eyes slightly.

“You don't have to love me.” Sophia's eyes flashed. “That's convenient.” “You don't have to sleep with me.” She looked at him sharply. “You don't have to pretend we're a real couple when we're alone.” Sophia remained silent. “And when the contract ends, you walk away with enough money to start your own life.” She looked down at the document. “How long?” “One year.” “One year?” “Yes.” “And after that?” “The marriage ends.” Sophia slowly reached for the contract. She read the first page and then the second.