The marriage was a gilded cage, forged in the fires of familial obligation. Her grandfather, a titan of industry, had made a deathbed promise to his old business partner—the supremacist’s grandfather—that their legacies would be united. To refuse would mean disinheriting her mother, plunging them into financial ruin. So, with a heart full of rage, she, a fierce and vocal feminist, married a man whose ideology she found repulsive. He was a stark, arrogant man, slim and handsome in a cruel way, who believed her fiery spirit was just something to be tamed.

Their new apartment was a battlefield. Every night he’d try to claim his marital rights, and every night he’d be shoved away, landing on the floor with a thud that was becoming routine. Their fights were volcanic, their screams and slammed doors echoing through the building. It was one such fight that brought their neighbor, a massive, athletic black man named Marcus, to their door. He complained with a weary frustration, and when they ignored him, he brought the building manager. The supremacist, Ethan, sneered at him, muttering racial slurs under his breath after the door was closed, which only made her fight him harder.

One evening, during another screaming match, a different scream cut through theirs—a raw, desperate cry from Marcus’s apartment. Driven by a twisted mix of concern and a desire for revenge against the man who had dared to complain about her noise, she stormed out into the hallway. She marched to his door, her fist raised to pound on it and give him a piece of her mind. The door swung open before she could knock.

There he was, Marcus, completely naked, glistening with a sheen of sweat from what must have been a workout. Her prepared tirade evaporated. Her eyes dropped, drawn by an animal instinct she didn’t know she possessed, to the heavy, low-hanging appendage between his legs. It was a sight so primal, so overwhelmingly masculine, that her brain short-circuited. The fight, the anger, her husband—it all vanished. She felt her knees buckle, her body sinking to the floor in the hallway, her mouth agape. The door slammed shut, leaving her kneeling there, a profound and terrifying new desire blooming in her soul.

From that day on, she was haunted. The image of him was burned into her mind. She’d masturbate with a furious desperation, her fingers working her clit as she replayed the scene in her head. She couldn’t even look at him in the lobby, her cheeks burning with shame and lust. Her husband’s attempts to touch her were met with a new kind of coldness, a disgust that was now directed inward as much as at him. Finally, she ordered a massive black dildo online, a near-exact replica of the phantom in her fantasies.

The day it arrived, Ethan was on a business trip. She tore open the package, her hands trembling. She stripped naked and fell onto their marital bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the fire in her veins. She rammed the dildo inside herself, gasping at the size. She closed her eyes and it was Marcus. It was his body, his strength, his cock. She began to moan, loudly, wantonly, the sounds of her pleasure filling the silent apartment. “Yes, fuck me, Marcus, harder!” she screamed, lost in her fantasy.

A few minutes later, a sharp knock came at the door. “Keep it the fuck down in there!” a deep, familiar voice rumbled.

Panic and a dark, thrilling opportunity warred within her. In a haze of lust and sweat, she didn’t even think. She ran to the door, flinging it open while still completely nude, her body slick with perspiration. He was walking away, his broad back a wall of muscle. She acted on pure impulse, darting out and grabbing his huge hand. “Help me,” she whispered, her voice soft and pleading.

He turned, his eyes widening as they took in her naked, flushed form. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. He let her pull him inside. The door clicked shut. What followed was not a gentle lovemaking, but a primal conquest. He was twice as big as the toy, and each powerful thrust sent a shockwave through her body, rearranging her insides and shattering her personality into a million pieces. The old her, the feminist, the wife—she was fucked out of existence. In her place was something new, something devoted. She was pounded twice that night, and by the morning, she was a convert, a devout worshipper at the altar of her black neighbor.

Her life transformed. She became his pet, his property. A leather collar with a small tag reading “Marcus’s” was now a permanent fixture around her neck when getting fucked. Her wardrobe of sensible feminist attire was replaced with a collection of latex, fishnet, and micro-miniskirts that made her look like a high-class escort. When Ethan came home, she no longer pushed him away. Instead, she’d meet his advances with a searing kiss, her tongue dancing with his. She’d stretch the foreplay, teasing him, stroking him, whispering filthy things in his ear until he, a man with pathetic stamina, would cum in his pants like a teenager. She was psychologically dismantling him, piece by piece.

She began disappearing for entire nights, returning the next day smelling of sex, cheap motel soap, and other men. She was being passed around Marcus’s friends, a fucktoy for their group. Their encounters were filmed, the raw footage uploaded to amateur porn sites. She quickly amassed a following, a legion of fans who bought her kinky outfits and commissioned increasingly degrading videos. She became “The Snowbunny,” a legend in the niche corners of the internet.

Ethan, lost in a sea of confusion and despair, stumbled upon one of her videos while scrolling through a porn aggregator. The world stopped. He saw his wife, his stunning, brilliant wife, on her knees, her face covered in the cum of multiple black men. He planned his confrontation, his righteous fury building.

But she was ready. Her masters had trained her well. As he began to yell, holding his phone up with the video playing, she didn’t flinch. She just smiled, walked over, and aggressively unzipped his pants. She fell to her knees and took his flaccid, shocked cock into her mouth, sucking it with a practiced expertise he’d never known. She turned up the volume on her phone, the sounds of her own moans and their grunts filling the room. When he was hard and twitching, she stood up, her mouth full of his precum, and tried to kiss him. He slapped her, hard. He had no idea that this was the same mouth that, just yesterday, had licked the cum off their apartment floor, licked shoes and cleaned her master’s asshole.

The tension was unbearable for days. Every time he tried to bring it up, she would seduce him, edging him until he was a babbling, submissive mess, unable to form a coherent thought. One day, she left a simple note: “Gone to a friend’s.” She didn’t come back for a week. Ethan knew where she was. He had subscribed to her channel, a pathetic mix of self-loathing and morbid curiosity driving him. Then, one day the most humiliating one yet appeared.

The video was titled “My New Identity.” It opened on a close-up of her perfectly sculpted ass. On right cheek, a fresh, black spade tattoo was now inked into her skin. She wore nothing but her dog collar, but attached to it was a laminated ID card, just like a dog tag. It read: “Name: Cumguzzler Snowbunny. Owner: Marcus & Friends.” The video showed her being led on a leash, presenting her new tattoo to the camera, and then taking twenty loads in a row without spilling a drop.

As the video ended, Ethan heard a knock. He opened the door to a vision from his worst nightmare. It was Cumguzzler Snowbunny. She was in the exact state she was in when the video ended: naked, covered in oil, sweat, and cum, with fresh semen dripping from her mouth, her cunt, and her asshole. She saw the dark, wet stain on his trousers where he’d cum in his pants while watching the video, and she let out a cruel, mocking laugh. She walked past him, leaving a trail of fluid on the floor, and collapsed into their bed, passing out instantly.

He didn’t sleep. He lay on the couch, his mind a maelstrom of rage and humiliation. By morning, he had decided. He was going to beat her until she was unrecognizable. He fell into a fitful sleep on the couch, fueled by whiskey and hate. When he woke up, she was gone.

For a month, she was a ghost. Every day, a new video dropped. The degradation escalated: piss showers, public bukkakes in alleyways, her being used as a human ashtray. Ethan broke. He was a hollowed-out shell. He began sending her pathetic, begging messages on her messaging app. “Please come home.” “I’ll do anything.” “I don’t care if you’re their whore, just please, let me watch. Use our bed. Just let me be near you.” Every message was left on read. The only replies he got were links to her newest, more depraved videos.

One late night, she appeared at the door. She was a mess, covered in a disgusting cocktail of bodily fluids, her hair matted, her eyes vacant. She didn’t speak, just walked to the bedroom and passed out on the bed.

The rage was a physical thing, a white-hot inferno that burned away every last trace of the broken man he had become. All the begging, the watching, the self-loathing—it coalesced into a single, violent impulse. He stood over her sleeping form, the stench of her degradation filling his lungs, and he saw not his wife but a filthy, desecrated thing that had poisoned his life. He lunged.

His fists were clumsy, fueled by pure adrenaline. The first punch landed on her back, and she woke with a startled cry, her eyes wide with a confusion that quickly turned to terror. He was on her, his hands around her throat, squeezing, his vision tunneling. He was going to erase her, to cleanse his world of her stain.

Her scream was cut off by his grip, but it was enough. The bedroom door splintered inward, ripped from its hinges. Marcus stood there, a mountain of fury, his eyes taking in the scene in a nanosecond: the scrawny white supremacist choking his property.

What happened next was not a rescue. It was a demolition. Marcus moved with a terrifying speed that belied his size. He grabbed Ethan by the throat and effortlessly lifted him off the bed, slamming him against the wall with a force that cracked the plaster. Ethan’s rage evaporated, replaced by primal fear. He flailed, but it was like a child fighting a man. Marcus’s fists were wrecking balls, pummeling Ethan’s ribs, his stomach, his face. Bruises bloomed instantly, blood sprayed from his nose and split lip. It was a systematic, brutal beating designed to break him, not kill him.