She came to me because her husband was a ghost—too vanilla to even see the slut hiding in plain sight. She didn't want romance; she wanted a reclamation. I started the ritual by dressing her in the uniform of the used: pantyhose, a choker, and a blindfold. I wanted her sensory-deprived and dependent. To ensure her humiliation was complete, I brought in an audience—four women on a video call to watch her be dismantled. I ordered her to expose herself, to push her holes wide, to accept every slap and every spit as a reminder of her place.

The penetration was a conquest. I spent a moment sizing her up, letting the weight of my cock remind her of her size requirements. The missionary set was a blur of friction and force, ending in a violent squirt that signaled the start of the hunt. I flipped her, treating her body like a piece of meat, digging deep and hard. The sound of the impact became the only thing in the room. I wanted to ruin her. I gripped her waist with a bruising force, lifting her body as I buried myself to the hilt. Then, the switch—a sudden, jarring transition from pussy to asshole. The shock sent her straight into the void; her eyes rolled back, her mind went blank, and she drifted into a state of absolute, drooling numbness. I finished her with a series of punishing strokes that left her broken. When I finally released her, she didn't move. She just lay there, gaped and shattered, exactly where she belonged.