Chapter 2

Hi all, hope you are enjoying the story so far. For generated images and video that accompany the stories checkout my patreon at patreon.com/InfiniteEleven

Lily’s playful eagerness from the night of her encounter with Barry waned as the full weight of what she had done began to set in. Did she really want to go further? What had gotten into her last night?

The next morning, the air in their small kitchen was thick with unspoken tension. The easy rhythm of their routine was gone, replaced by a careful, choreographed distance. Jake made coffee, his movements too precise, the clink of his spoon against the ceramic mug unnaturally loud in the silence. Lily poured a glass of water, her gaze fixed on the stream filling the glass, on anything but him.

It was Jake who finally broke the silence, his voice uncharacteristically soft, tentative. “Hey,” he began, placing a mug on the counter near her, but not too near. “About last night ... I feel like maybe I should have intervened before things went too far. Are you okay?”

Lily flinched at the question, gripping her glass. This was her chance to build a wall. She couldn’t admit to the confusing flicker of power she’d felt, or the surprising arousal towards the end at her own degrading position, pleasuring a gross older man – his cum covering her hand and even splattering near her pouty little mouth. To do so would be to invite more. She had to perform. She turned to him, her face a carefully constructed mask of revulsion. “It was just ... gross, Jake.” She let out a small, authentic shudder. “The way he smelled ... feeling his... that ... on my skin.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “It wasn’t a fun game. It just felt dirty. I felt cheap.”

Jake’s relief was almost palpable, though he hid it well behind a facade of remorse. She was disgusted. Good. That meant he could be the protector. “You’re right,” he said immediately, his tone earnest as he stepped closer. “You’re absolutely right. I got lost in the idea of it, the fantasy, and I didn’t think about how it would actually feel for you. He is a pathetic loser. It was a mistake to go that far.”

This was the validation Lily needed to set her boundary. “I don’t think I can do that again,” she said, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. “The physical part is ... it’s too much.”

“Okay,” Jake said, nodding quickly, sealing the deal. “I hear you. No more physical stuff. We’ll stick to the online teasing. That was a line, and I crossed it. I promise I won’t again.”

A fragile, dishonest truce settled between them. Lily accepted his apology with a quiet nod, relieved that she had established a rule that would protect her from any more unwanted physical encounters. Jake was relieved that by agreeing to her terms, he had salvaged the game, keeping her trust while he secretly cherished the memory of what had happened. He gave her a brief, functional hug, a gesture of peacemaking, not passion. “Okay, Jake. Done,” she murmured into his shoulder. The matter was closed. Or so they had both agreed.

But the residue of the handjob, Barry’s surprisingly substantial member, and her own confusing, shameful arousal lingered. Her mind kept replaying the moment of his climax, the sheer volume of it erupting onto her hand. She had scrubbed her skin raw in the bathroom afterward, but she couldn’t wash away the sensory imprint. “It should be repulsive,” she’d whisper to herself in the dark, Jake snoring softly beside her. “So why do I keep thinking about the feel of it?” The disgust she was supposed to feel, the disgust she performed for Jake, felt thin and brittle compared to the bewilderment.

Driven by a desperate need to understand her own body’s confusing signals, Lily found herself drawn to the anonymous glow of her laptop screen late at night. This wasn’t an exploration of Jake’s fantasy; it was a search for answers about herself. Her search history became a shameful litany of her confusion: “unexpected arousal,” “turned on pleasuring gross older men,” “why am I turned on by being degraded?”

Her search led her to forums where people spoke of similar dissonances, but their stories offered little comfort. One night, a link in a thread caught her eye. It promised a video that was, according to the poster, a perfect example of what they were discussing. Lily clicked it with a dark curiosity. Maybe if I see it again, she thought, this time removed, on a screen, the disgust will finally stick. It will snap me out of this.

The video was grainy, poorly lit. An older, overweight man, not unlike Barry in his general patheticness, though perhaps even more slovenly, had a young woman, not much older than Lily, on her knees before him. And his cock ... it was strikingly similar to Barry’s. Not just large, but thick, veined, with that same angry, purplish head. The man in the video, his face mostly obscured by shadow, was thrusting his thick, veiny cock into the girl’s throat. It was brutal, violent, the girl’s head forced back, her eyes squeezed shut, then flickering open to show a strange, glazed acceptance. The sounds were muffled, wet, and choked.

Her fingers, as if with a will of their own, drifted downwards, sliding beneath the soft cotton waistband of her pajama shorts. The material was already damp, a testament to her body’s traitorous reaction. She pulled the shorts down, exposing her pale creamy thighs. Her own scent, sweet with arousal, rose to meet her. Her hand moved to the burgeoning heat between her legs, her fingers parting the soft outer lips to find the slick, dewy wetness within. This was Jake’s domain, the pristine, tight pussy he cherished, its delicate inner folds a perfect, hardly touched pink. No one else had ever seen it, let alone touched it. The thought should have been a shield, but now it was a source of dark, shameful excitement. Her fingers found her clit, already a hard, sensitive pearl, and she began to circle it slowly.

The images on the screen – the thick, veiny cock, so like Barry’s, disappearing down that willing throat – merged with the memory of Barry’s own imposing flesh in her hand, its surprising heat, the way those thick veins had pulsed against her palm. Her strokes became more urgent, her hips beginning to move in a slow, unconscious rhythm that matched the man’s brutal thrusts in the video. She imagined the sheer, overwhelming size of it, not in her hand, but pushing against her own wet, practically virgin entrance, stretching the tight, pink folds that had only ever known Jake. The shame was a bitter taste in her mouth, yet it only seemed to fuel the strange tension within her. A sharp orgasm jolted through her, making her gasp and arch her back against the pillows. It wasn’t a release born of love or tenderness, not like with Jake. This was something else, deeply physical and psychological – dark, degrading, and shamefully, powerfully more fulfilling. It was an orgasm born of transgression.

Afterward, she lay there, trembling, the sticky dampness on her fingers and thighs a reminder of her body’s betrayal. She felt disgusted with herself, her cheeks burning. The video had long since ended, the laptop screen dark, reflecting her own shadowed face. Yet ... the physical release had been undeniably, overwhelmingly real. “I would never,” she whispered to the empty room, the words a desperate attempt to reassure herself, to draw a line in the sand. “Not with him. Not really. It’s just ... Jake’s fantasy ... it’s messing with my head.” But deep down she felt a terrifying sense of both repulsion and a strange, nascent curiosity pulling her towards the darkness.

Meanwhile, Barry, existing in his own delusional bubble, was a man reborn. The handjob, in his mind, hadn’t been a coerced act of desperation on Lily’s part (or Jake’s design), but a meaningful, intimate connection. Proof of her understanding of his “deep, masculine needs.” His direct messages to Lily, once fawning and nearly childlike in their admiration, now took on an unnerving possessiveness, a grotesque familiarity.

“My dearest Lily,” one began, just a day after the incident, “I trust you recovered well from our ... passionate encounter. I still dream of your touch. So knowing, so skillful. You truly understand what a real man needs, what I’ve been yearning for. Few women possess your intuitive gift for release. You have a magic touch, my sweet girl.”

He mentioned “our special connection,” as if the sordid scene in her living room had been a mutual act of passion rather than a humiliating performance. He frequently referenced the “mess” he’d made, not with shame, but with a kind of proprietary pride. “I hope my offering wasn’t too ... overwhelming for you, my dear. It had been so long since I’d felt such a powerful release, and all thanks to your talented hands and your beautiful, willing spirit.” The way he framed it, she was not just a participant but a willing, even eager, conduit for his pleasure.

Lily mostly ignored his messages by sending dry responses, in an attempt to distance herself after the incident. After all, Jake and her had decided to cut things off. She wasn’t ready for any teasing with Barry, even confined to the virtual world.

Barry’s delusion festered in the stale, recycled air of his lonely security booth. In the dead hours of the night, surrounded by the silent, flickering glow of CCTV monitors, he’d pull out his phone. He’d open the nude photo she’d “accidentally” sent, his thumb tracing the outline of her pale body on the screen. He cherished it. It was his proof. And it was the gateway to his increasingly vivid fantasies.

He’d close his eyes and he was back in her living room, but this time it was different. This time, she was on her knees before him not with shock, but with pure adoration sparkling in her wide green eyes. He would imagine the feeling of her soft, warm lips closing around the full thickness of his veiny cock, her talented tongue tracing the sensitive, swollen head.

But the fantasy never stopped there anymore. It always escalated. He’d imagine pulling her up from her knees and bending her over his security desk, scattering months of food wrappers and papers onto the floor. He’d picture her perfect, tight ass presented to him, an offering he was owed. He could almost feel the grip of his sweaty palms on her pale hips, hard enough to leave red marks. He imagined the feeling of his enormous hog pushing into her tight, wet slit for the first time, her shocked gasp turning into a scream of pure ecstasy as she took all of him. He fantasized about her crying out his name—”Oh Barry! Daddy!”—as he bred her, filling her deep with his seed, marking her as his property, a final, total act of ownership.

A sharp crackle from his security radio would snap him back to reality. He’d open his eyes to the same drab booth, the same silent monitors. He’d be sweating, panting, with a painful erection straining against the cheap fabric of his trousers. The fantasy was too potent now, too real. He couldn’t just live with it in his head anymore. He had to see her again. He had to make it happen. A strong determination was taking root in Barry.

On the other end, Lily’s late-night searches evolved. She moved past the shock-value of porn and into the murky depths of online forums, where things could be slightly more personal but still anonymous. She found them hidden in plain sight: subreddits and private message boards with names like “r/cuckold”, “The hotwife’s corner”, and “r/youngslutsforoldpervs”. Here, under the cloak of anonymity, was a world that stunned her.

Some of it was a world populated by women like her, wives and girlfriends whose partners harbored similar fantasies. But their stories weren’t all tales of coercion and degradation. Many spoke with a liberated authority. They talked about satisfying their own desires. They shared tips on how to manipulate their partners’ arousal, how to feign reluctance to extract concessions, and how to use the “other man” not as a source of shame, but as a means to an end. Others posted themselves as an offering to older men, craving their attention and gaze, completely absent of any husband or boyfriends prodding.

Lily, whose entire sexual history consisted of Jake, read these posts with a fascination. These women spoke a language she’d never heard.

“He’s pathetic in bed,” one post read, “but seeing his face when my bull pins me to the wall? Best orgasm of my life. He knows he can’t compete.”

Another: “My husband’s only 5 inches. I started by ‘accidentally’ sending a pic of my ass to his ‘friend’ (a fat slob with a big dick from his work). Now, the slob knows I’m his to use, and my husband knows his place is to clean up after. I control everything.”

The raw, explicit nature of it all should have sent her running. The degradation, the base desires—it was everything she thought she despised. She was a delicate artist, a dancer, and always gave the impression of a sweet girl. Yet, it also presented an alternative to her own spiraling confusion. These women weren’t just victims; they were thoroughly satisfied. For Lily the idea of this mix of submission, attention, and a strange kind of power to thoroughly please—and receive earth-shattering pleasure with someone else—was a deeply “corrupting” seed.

A few nights later, fueled by a bottle of wine she’d drunk alone after Jake fell asleep, she decided to conduct an experiment. She opened the anonymous account she’d created for the forums, her heart hammering against her ribs—a thrilling, terrifying beat. She scrolled through the most popular posts, observing. It wasn’t the artful, suggestive photos that garnered the most intense reactions. It was the raw, crude ones: a close-up of a pussy pressed against sheer panties, lips spilling out the sides; a woman bent over, presenting her ass with a transactional caption. To get the visceral, unfiltered response she was now growingly curious about, she knew a graceful silhouette like in her public facing profiles would be ignored. She had to speak the forum’s native, ugly language.

She set her phone on the floor, tilting it up. Getting on her hands and knees on their plush bedroom rug, she deliberately arched her back, presenting her ass directly to the camera’s harsh, unforgiving flash. She wore a cheap, flimsy thong she’d bought on a whim, a scrap of fabric that was utterly unequal to its task. The string disappeared completely between her pale cheeks, offering a striking view of the delicate, puckered pink ripples around her asshole. The front of the thong was stretched taut, disappearing between the pink lips of her tight wet pussy. It wasn’t a tease; it was another primal offer on r/youngslutsforoldpervs.

Her fingers trembled as she uploaded it. She added a caption, her words infused with a newfound, calculated bluntness she’d learned from the other women.

“My husband thinks this is private property, only for his use. I’m starting to think it deserves a wider appraisal. Any older guys like this 23F pussy?”

She hit ‘post’ and her phone immediately began to buzz. The notifications were a torrent. The comments were a flood of crude, desperate hunger.

“I’d own that perfect ass.”

“Fuck him. Let a real man breed you.”

“Be a good girl for daddy and suck my cock.”

“That tight little asshole needs my tongue.”

A wave of shame and regret hit her first. This is how they saw her. Not as a dancer, not as a person, but as an object. A set of holes. A piece of meat to be used and discarded.

But the sickness was quickly followed by something else, something hot and undeniable. It was the intoxicating thought of being reduced to pure flesh, of being defiled by strangers and her own submissive will to provide pleasure. Their raw, disgusting hunger—their desire to use her—was precisely what was triggering the arousal. It was the same dark, unsettling feeling she got from the porn video, the same confusing thrum she felt when Barry came on her hand. It wasn’t about controlling them; it was about the terrifying excitement of what their desire did to her, and the power of her ability to deliver deep pleasure.

This newfound curiosity began to bleed into her daily life. The next weekend, a broken handle on their kitchen drawer provided a mundane pretext. “Let’s run to the hardware store,” Jake suggested. Lily agreed, a plan already forming in her mind. She emerged from the bedroom wearing a thin, white, ribbed tank top, explicitly braless, and a pair of faded, tight low-rise jeans that hugged her hips and framed her ass perfectly.

“Jesus, Lily,” Jake said, his eyes doing a slow, hungry trace of her body. “That top should be illegal. You’re going to be a major distraction in there.” He was thrilled, interpreting her boldness as a performance for their private game, completely oblivious that it was an experiment more for her own exploration.

Inside the sprawling, fluorescent-lit store, they split up. “Okay, you check out the drill bits in aisle 7, and I’ll find the cabinet hardware in aisle 10,” Jake said. “Meet you back here.”

It was a perfect setup. Jake, after quickly grabbing his item, couldn’t resist. He doubled back, positioning himself at the far end of aisle 10, partially concealed behind a towering display of industrial fans. From his hiding spot, he had a clear, down-the-aisle view of Lily. A possessive, voyeuristic thrill pulsed through him. He was no longer just a participant; he was a secret spectator.

In aisle 10, Lily pretended to study the selection of drawer pulls. Two men in their late forties, wearing dusty work boots and paint-splattered jeans, were assessing plumbing fixtures nearby. They spotted her instantly. Their conversation dropped to low murmurs. Jake, watching from afar, could see the nudge, the way their appraising gazes dropped from her face to her chest and lingered.

Lily felt their heavy, masculine stares like a physical touch. A hot flush of shame prickled her skin, but it was immediately chased by a powerful, dizzying thrill. Her nipples, already prominent under the thin fabric, tightened into hard, aching points. She felt a distinct heat bloom between her thighs. As one of the men turned from a display shelf, holding a large, cold bottle of water, he made a clumsy, exaggerated gesture while talking to his friend. The “accident” was laughably telegraphed.

The man’s arm swung wide, and a cascade of cold water sloshed from the bottle directly onto the front of Lily’s white top.

The effect was instant and electric. Where the fabric was wet, it turned completely transparent, clinging to her skin like a second, sheer layer. Her small, perky breasts were now shockingly visible, her hardened, rose-pink nipples starkly, explicitly revealed beneath the drenched material. There was no ambiguity, only raw, undeniable exposure.

The men’s crude leering evaporated, replaced by a stunned, slack-jawed silence. They were no longer joking; they were simply consuming the sight. “Oh, Christ, ma’am, I’m so sorry...” one of them stammered, his eyes glued to her chest, unable to look away. He offered a useless paper towel from his pocket, his hand trembling slightly.

From his hiding spot, Jake was frozen in a state of horrified ecstasy. He saw the spill. He saw his wife’s breasts, exposed for these two rough strangers. He was trapped, unable to rush to her aid, to offer his jacket, to assert his ownership. He was forced to simply watch as they stared, his body flooding with a potent, agonizing mix of protective rage and voyeuristic arousal.

Lily gasped, a perfect performance of shock and embarrassment. “Oh! It’s ... it’s okay, it’s just cold,” she stammered. But inside, she was buzzing. She made a futile show of dabbing at the stain, an action that only served to press the wet fabric more intimately against her skin, further highlighting every detail of her nipples for her rapt audience.

Just as the first man was about to apologize again, his friend, a smirk now replacing his initial shock, leaned forward slightly. His voice was a low, greasy drawl that cut through the sterile air of the aisle. “Don’t you worry about him, little darlin’,” he said, his eyes not leaving her chest. “We don’t mind the free show one bit. Bet those pretty pink things get even harder when they’re really cold. You know, there’s an employee bathroom just a few aisles over. Maybe we could all get more acquainted.”

The words, so crude and direct, landed like a physical slap. The playful fantasy of accidental exposure shattered, replaced by the stark reality of his suggestion — they wanted to use her. Lily froze, her hand hovering over her chest. A hot, violent blush surged up her neck, a mixture of pure shame and a terrifying, electric jolt of arousal that shot straight to her core. Her nipples, already hard, ached with a new, painful intensity. This was no longer a game she was controlling; this was real, leering, and utterly humiliating. Without another word, she dropped the useless paper towel, let out a scared “no thanks!”, turned on her heel, and fled the aisle, not just walking quickly, but practically running, desperate to escape the weight of his words, the frightening surge of her own body’s reaction, and the threat of these men taking what they want.

Jake, from his hiding place, heard the comment clearly. A primal rage, white-hot and possessive, flared in his chest. How dare he talk to my wife like that. But the rage was tangled with a sickening, undeniable thrill. The man’s crude, objectifying words were a verbatim script from his darkest, most degrading fantasies. The thought of those rough, working-class men discussing his wife’s “pretty pink things” sent a wave of agonizing, exquisite arousal through him, making his cock ache with a painful, desperate pressure. He was forced to remain hidden, a coward in the face of his own realized fantasy, as his wife was verbally defiled.

Lily’s heart hammered against her ribs as she fled the aisle, the man’s lewd words echoing in her ears. She practically ran to the front of the store, grabbing a random chocolate bar from a display near the registers and getting in line, her back turned to the main part of the store. She stared blankly at the tabloid headlines, trying to calm her ragged breathing, praying Jake wouldn’t see the full extent of her panicked retreat.

A moment later, Jake joined her, placing a small box of drill bits on the conveyor belt next to her candy. His movements were steady, but she could feel the intense, coiled energy coming off him. He leaned in close, his voice a low, breathy whisper meant only for her, a perfect imitation of concern that she knew was a lie.

“Lily ... your shirt,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the damp patch clinging to her chest. “What happened? You’re all wet.”

She didn’t look at him, her gaze still fixed on the conveyor belt as it lurched forward. “Some guy ... he bumped into me. Spilled his water all over me,” she recounted, her voice a flat monotone.

“Just spilled it?” Jake pressed, his voice tight. He knew there was more. He had seen the confrontation from his hiding spot. He needed her to say the words.

Lily’s shoulders tensed. She took a shaky breath, feeding him the lines he craved, playing the part of the humiliated victim for his private theater. “And then his friend ... he said something,” she whispered. “He said ... he said he didn’t mind the ‘free show’.” She paused, letting the weight of the moment hang between them before delivering the final, crucial detail. “He commented on my ... nipples. Called them... ‘pretty pink things’. He wanted me to go to the employee bathroom with him”

Lily, glancing sideways, saw his hand tremble slightly as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. They paid in silence, gathered their small bag, and walked out into the bright afternoon sun. The short walk across the parking lot was excruciating, each step charged with unspoken electricity.

The drive home was thick with unspoken tension. Jake’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw tight. His gaze kept snagging on the damp, grey patch on Lily’s white top, where the thin fabric was still plastered to her skin, a stark reminder of her public exposure. He knew what had happened. He had seen it. But he needed to hear it from her, to experience her wanton exhibitionism through her voice, to make it real for their private theater.

“So...” he finally began, his voice hoarse, breaking the silence. “What ... What did he say to you, again? The second guy.”

Lily turned her head slowly, her expression a careful performance of shame. “He said ... he said he didn’t mind the free show,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the road noise. “And then he said ... he commented on my ... on my nipples.”

A low groan escaped Jake’s lips, a sound of agonizing pleasure that he tried to stifle as a cough. The car swerved slightly. “He what?”

“He called them ‘pretty pink things’,” Lily recited, the crude words feeling alien and sharp on her tongue. “He said he bet they got even harder when they were really cold, and he wanted to take me to the employee bathroom to get more acquainted.”

That was it. The direct quote, the raw, unfiltered language of his fantasy spoken aloud from his own wife’s lips. The impact was visceral. Those gruff men wanted to fuck and use his dainty little wife.

Lily watched him, her own heart hammering. She saw the undeniable evidence of his arousal straining against the fabric of his jeans. This was the reaction she had, on some level, both dreaded and craved. Seeing him so completely undone by her “humiliation” gave her a dizzying sense of power, she was a prized and craved sex object. In a movement that felt both rehearsed from her online readings and strangely instinctual, she unbuckled her seatbelt.

She turned in her seat, and her hand disappeared from his view, moving below the line of the dashboard.

His reaction was immediate—a sharp, strangled gasp. His hands flew up from his lap to grip the steering wheel, his body going rigid.

As her fingers wrapped around him, the contrast was immediate and jarring. Jake felt ... familiar. Known. His erection was eager and hot against her palm, but it lacked the shocking brutal heft she remembered from Barry. Stroking Jake was an act of practiced intimacy, of love and marital duty. Stroking Barry, however briefly, had been an act of pure, terrifying power, like holding a wild, unpredictable animal. One was the comfort of home; the other was the exhilarating dread of a storm she’d willingly walked into. The memory of Barry’s thick, veiny cock filled her mind, a vivid, unwelcome phantom that made her own touch on her husband feel somewhat ... quaint.

Jake shuddered against her hand, his release quick and boyish compared to the overwhelming, seemingly endless torrent she had coaxed from Barry. As he panted, catching his breath, Lily slowly withdrew her hand. The memory of Barry was no longer just a story they told each other. It was now a physical, tangible presence in the car, a silent third passenger in their most intimate moments, a new and secret yardstick against which everything else would be measured.

When they got home, the air was still charged. Jake, high on the adrenaline of the day, followed her into the living room, a hungry look in his eyes. “God, Lily, that was ... let’s go to the bedroom. I need to properly celebrate that performance.”

But Lily turned, summoning a facade of exhaustion. The lie came easily, a necessary shield. “Jake, please. I just ... I feel so gross. Hearing what that man said ... seeing how they looked at me ... it wasn’t a fun game. It just felt real. I need a shower. I want to wash it all off.”

His predatory excitement faltered, replaced by a look of concern that she knew was part of the act. He had to believe she was the reluctant victim. “Of course, baby. I’m sorry. Go, relax.”

He slumped onto the couch, flicking on the TV, left to stew in his unspent arousal while Lily escaped to the bathroom. Under the hot spray of the shower, she replayed the day’s events. The leering men. Jake’s frantic climax in the car. Her own hand on his familiar cock, while her mind was filled with the shocking memory of another’s. Later, when she emerged wrapped in a thick robe, she feigned a headache and curled up in an armchair with a book, creating a chasm of space between them in the small room. The contrast was a gnawing, insistent question in her mind. Jake’s pleasure was so tied to her humiliation, yet his physical response felt boyish, a firecracker compared to the raw, volcanic potential she had held in her hand. The disconnect was a puzzle, a dark, compelling mystery she felt an urgent need to solve.

On yet another restless night, scrolling through forums, a notification popped up at the top of her screen: a new private message. Her heart gave a hard, painful thud. This was different. This was an invitation to step further into the dark.

The username was “GrayWolf68”. The profile picture was a blurry, poorly lit selfie showing a sliver of a grizzled chin, a thick neck, and the collar of a stained, faded t-shirt. He looked old. He looked ... a bit like Barry.

His message was blunt, a dominant command that immediately set the terms. “That’s a hot offer on your post offering up that tight pink hole. But words are cheap. You want my attention? Earn it. Show me something personal only a serious slut would show a man. How about we start with those perfect little tits you’re hiding, a shot just for me.”