The first message was a single line. "My husband says it's okay." I knew the script. It's always the same. They talk, they argue, she fantasizes. Stella had a hunger her husband, Mark, couldn't fill. I'd seen the pictures: her, pretty in that sterile, suburban way; him, soft and earnest. She called him "lovely" and "kind," but his cock was "adequate." Adequate is a death sentence.

Two weeks of late-night texts laid it bare. Never an orgasm with him inside her. Years of faked moans, a performance for an audience of one. She told me about her secret in the closet, a nine-inch silicone beast named "Eben." She'd fuck herself with it after he fell asleep, her cunt clenching around a phantom of what she truly needed, while he snored beside her, oblivious. The manipulation was a work of art. She dangled a threesome, another woman for him, like a carrot. He had his own demons, a nose for cocaine that made his ego fragile and his judgment piss-poor. The idea of watching his wife get properly fucked, probably while high enough to float, became a twisted thrill. A sacrifice for a prize he'd never get. His one rule, sent with a winky-face emoji, was that I must always use protection. A small, flimsy wall for a man trying to pretend he wasn't handing over the keys to his kingdom.

And now, the day is here. I'm on my bike, the engine a low thrum beneath me. I am the item. The procurement. The nine-inch solution to a six-inch problem. I'm not a person to them; I'm a living, breathing dildo with a pulse and a deep voice. I'm the fantasy made flesh. I've done my prepwork. I'm clean, I'm trimmed, I'm packing. The box of condoms in my pocket feels like a hall pass, a permission slip from a man I've never met.

I pull up to the house. It's perfect. Green lawn, face-brick walls, not precast "mure." A white double-cab Bakkie in the driveway. It smells of desperation and fertilizer. I knock on the door, my knuckles rapping against the wood, the sound of a judge's gavel sealing a verdict.

Stella opens it. She's better than her pictures. A tight black dress that clings to her curves, her eyes dark and hungry, already scanning me, assessing the goods. She gives a little nervous smile. "You're here."

"I'm here," I say. My voice is calm, steady. It's the voice of a man who knows his role.

Mark is in the living room. He's thinner than his pictures, with the jittery energy of a man who's been up for two days. He offers me a hand, his grip damp and weak. "Hey, man. Thanks for coming." He's trying to play it cool, like he's just a buddy welcoming another buddy over for a beer. But his eyes keep darting to Stella, then to my crotch, then back to the coffee table where a few lines of white powder are neatly arranged next to a crumpled packet of Stuyvesant.

Stella floats over to him, kissing his cheek. "Be a good boy and make our guest a drink, Marky." The condescension is thick, but he just nods, eager to please, eager to get to the main event. She turns to me, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I've been thinking about this for weeks." She reaches out, her fingers tracing the outline of my cock through my jeans. It's a possessive gesture. "I hope you're as big as you say."

"Bigger," I say simply.

Mark returns with a glass of whiskey for me. He does a couple of lines, his movements jerky. He offers me some, but I decline. I like to be clear-headed for my work. I need to be in total control. He sits in a single armchair, a throne for a cuckold king, and watches as Stella leads me by the hand toward the bedroom. The room smells like her perfume and his failure.

She turns to me, her hands already working at my belt. "The rule," she says, her breath hot against my neck. "He'll be watching."

"Let him watch," I growl, and I push her down onto the bed. I see him in the doorway, a silhouette with a glass in his hand, as I pull my cock out. Stella's eyes go wide, a genuine gasp escaping her lips. It's the look I live for. The look that says "finally." I tear open the foil packet, the sound loud in the quiet room, and roll the condom on. His rule. His flimsy little shield.

I didn't go slow. I gave her one long, deep thrust and buried myself to the hilt. She cried out, a real sound, not a fake moan. I looked over at Mark. His face was a mask of shock. He was watching his wife get wrecked by the item he'd invited into his home. I started moving, a steady rhythm, my hips slapping against her ass. Stella was lost, her head thrown back, her nails digging into my back. I felt her cunt start to clench and spasm around me, her first real orgasm with a man inside her tearing through her body. I knew this weekend was going to be long.

But that first orgasm was just the start. I've been with a lot of women, but Stella was different. She wasn't just hungry; she was starving. After she came, panting and sweaty, she didn't need a break. Her eyes locked onto mine. "Again," she snarled. It wasn't a request.

I gave it to her, and the second orgasm hit her harder than the first. Then the third. By the fourth one, Mark had slumped into the armchair in the living room. He couldn't watch anymore. He was a spectator at a sport he couldn't play, and he'd been sent off the field.

That's when Stella really came alive. With her audience gone, she pushed me onto my back and took over. She straddled me, gripped my hips with her thighs, and took control. She rose up, almost letting me slip out, then slammed herself down, taking the entire length in one motion. The sound was wet and loud.

"Fuck," she grunted, her head back. "Fuck, yes."

She set a rhythm that was almost inhuman. Up and down, her abs tight. She wasn't just fucking me; she was using my cock to pound herself, chasing a feeling she'd only dreamed of. I'd been with size queens before, but they were tourists compared to Stella. She was a zealot. A pilgrim who'd finally reached her holy place. She took the full length of my shaft every single time, the base slamming against her cervix with a force that should have been painful. Instead, she just moaned louder, a guttural sound of pure ecstasy.

Her stamina was incredible. She rode me through another orgasm, then another, her body glistening with sweat, her breath ragged. She was a machine built for one purpose, and I was just the part she needed to function. I've never been so completely used. She was the biggest size queen I'd ever met, a woman who didn't just crave size, she needed it like air. As the sun came up through the blinds, she was still riding, still chasing that feeling, her greedy cunt clenching around me, determined to get every last bit of pleasure out of the weekend she had planned. This wasn't just a lie their marriage was built on anymore. This was her new foundation. And I was the bedrock.