Broken Vows - a Cuckold Story (Intro Part - 4 Sarah)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 21: The Shower & Ultimatum
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 21: The Shower & Ultimatum - This is part 4 of the introduction to my original story BROKEN VOWS which is a cuckold story series with some dark undertones. This story is from the wife Sarah's perspective.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Blackmail Coercion Consensual Drunk/Drugged NonConsensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Rough Spanking Cream Pie Exhibitionism Facial Massage Oral Sex Squirting Public Sex
I went into the bathroom and closed the door. I pulled the nightgown over my head and dropped it on the floor. Then I stepped out of the panties. Both pieces of clothing were filthy. Stained with sweat and cum. Mine and his. The smell coming off them was strong and unmistakable. I lifted the panties to my face without thinking and immediately regretted it. The scent was thick. Musky. Overwhelming. There was so much of his cum soaked into the fabric that the crotch was stiff in places. I felt sick. I also felt the low, traitorous throb between my legs again.
I turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it and stepped under the water with the panties still in my hand. I held them under the spray and watched the water run cloudy for a minute before it cleared. Then I dropped them on the shower floor and reached for the soap. I scrubbed between my legs until the skin felt raw. I washed my face twice. I washed my hair. None of it made the memories go away.
When I finally turned the water off and stood dripping, another memory surfaced.
I had been half-asleep, warm and sore, when I felt the body behind me. An arm around my waist. A hard cock pressed against my ass. For a few seconds I had thought it was Nick. The familiar weight. The familiar heat. Then I felt his size—thicker, longer, unmistakably not my husband—and my eyes opened. Everything had come back in a rush. The couch. The bed. The table. Ryan. He had been spooning me, already hard, already moving.
He had lifted my top leg and pushed into me from behind. Slow at first, then deeper. The angle had been different. Intimate in a way that felt wrong because it was not Nick. “Morning,” he had murmured against my ear. “You’re so wet already. Even half-asleep. Your body knows what it wants.” I had whimpered. My hand had reached back and rested on his hip, not pushing him away. He had fucked me like that for a long time, one hand on my breast, the other between my legs, rubbing my clit in slow circles while he thrust. I had cum once, quietly, face pressed into the pillow, body shaking against his.
When he had gotten close, he had pulled out. He had moved, rolling me onto my back, and straddled my chest. His cock, slick and hard, had been right at my mouth. “Open,” he had said. “Suck it. I’m going to cum, and you’re going to swallow every drop.”
I had been scared. I had wanted to say no. I had never swallowed for anyone before, and the idea had made my stomach clench. But his cock had already been pushing past my lips, thick and tasting of both of us again, and my mouth had been full before I could get the words out. He straddled me, one hand braced on the headboard, the other gripping my hair. I had looked up at him, eyes wide, and he had started to thrust shallowly into my mouth.
“That’s it,” he had groaned. “Good girl. Open up your mouth and take it. I’m close. When I cum, swallow it all. Don’t spill any.”
I had felt the first pulse hit the back of my tongue. Hot. Thick. So much of it. My throat had closed, and I had gagged. The taste had been overwhelming—bitter, salty, heavy. I had felt like I would drown if I did not swallow. Panic and disgust had mixed with the strange, helpless obedience that had taken over so much of the night. I had swallowed. Once. Then again. Some of it had escaped the corner of my mouth and run down my chin. He had kept coming, hips jerking, and I had kept swallowing because there had been no other choice. When he had finally pulled back, I had coughed, eyes watering, cum and spit on my lips and chin. He had stroked my hair and told me I had done perfectly. I had lain there afterward, chest heaving, tasting him, hating that I had done it, and hating even more that some small, broken part of me had felt a twisted pride at the praise.
Less than an hour after that I had again woken, this time to Ryan positioned above me; he had spread my legs and entered me in missionary. He gave me another slow, long fuck, with me moaning and cuming into his shoulder while tears ran down my cheeks. When he was ready, he pulled out and moved up my body, stroking his huge hard cock.
“What are you doing?” I had asked.
He groaned, and his head leaned back, and I watched as thick ropes of cum shot out of his cock and splattered all over my face. Of all the things he had subjected me to that night, this was the worst indignity: to have him plaster my face with his semen, to have it dripping off my eyelids and nose, making me look disgusting and used, and I began to sob, crying hard over the humiliation of the act.
Ryan took his hand and gently pulled three fingers down my face, almost a caress, and then held them to my mouth. They were covered in his semen that he had just wiped off me, and I could smell the strong odor.
“Open,” he said.
I refused, still crying. He took his other hand and tightly wrapped it in my hair and began to twist; the pain was intense.
“Open,” he said again, and I did.
He pushed his fingers into my mouth and told me, “Suck.”
I did that as well.
He repeated the process four times, then leaned in, kissed me, and said, “Good girl, you will learn to listen, and you will discover that you enjoy it.”
He had then pulled me close to him, and we had fallen asleep together, with me going under long after I had heard his breathing even out and my tears had finally run dry.
I stood under the cooling water, my forehead against the tile, and tried to understand how I had gotten here. I loved Nick with all my heart. He was kind, steady, and loyal, and he had never once pushed me to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. He had always put my pleasure first. He had gone down on me after he came because he wanted me to feel good even when I told him it was gross. He had never made me feel small or used or dirty. And I had just spent the night letting another man fuck me in every way imaginable, cum inside me over and over, fold me in half, make me squirt, push his thumb into my ass, put his cock in my mouth while it was still covered in both of us, finish down my throat while I was half-asleep, and tell me to swallow it all, and then cum on my face. I hadn’t only allowed most of it; I had also actively participated. Yes, I had said “no” and “I can’t,” but I hadn’t fought him when he didn’t listen. I had not really resisted, and once he had brought me pleasure, I had become a willing partner in this betrayal.
The guilt sat so heavy I could barely stand under it. I had cheated on my husband. Not once. Not in a moment of weakness I could explain away. I had spent hours letting Ryan use my body in ways I had never allowed Nick to use it. I had begged for it. I had cum harder than I had ever cum in my life. I had passed out with another man’s cock inside me in the bed I shared with my husband. And this morning I had gotten on my knees and swallowed his cum because he told me to. Again.