BigMommaStace: Live & Uncut

The door slammed like someone was trying to evict a ghost.

I flinched in my office chair, halfway through typing "synergistic content funnels" before realizing the death knell of domestic peace had just echoed from our front hall.

"Stace?" I called out, already wheeling backward from my desk.

The response was a sound somewhere between a sob and the dying gasp of a walrus.

I emerged from my den of SEO desperation to find my wife in the living room, still in her business casual getup, looking like a plus-sized, mascara-smeared Greek tragedy. Her heels were off, flung near the umbrella stand, and in one hand she held a partially-eaten cupcake like it had wronged her personally. The other hand clutched a Target bag that had clearly been used as a tissue graveyard.

She collapsed onto the couch, the cushions letting out a weary puff of air, as if they too had had enough today.

"I got fired," she moaned, flopping sideways in slow motion, breasts settling with majestic drama like twin soap opera actresses fainting on cue.

"Oh, honey..." I said carefully, walking toward her like she was a sleeping bear and I had salmon-scented shoes. "What happened?"

"They downsized," she sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with the hem of her cardigan, which I was 85% sure was cashmere and thus very much not meant for eye-dabbing. "Cutbacks. Cost optimization. Fucking Dale got to keep his job, and he spent half the Zoom meetings accidentally unmuted while peeing."

I sat beside her cautiously. The couch shifted under the force of her dramatic flop, pushing me several inches to the left. I reached out a hand and rested it on her thigh--soft, warm, and twitching with that barely-contained fury she usually reserved for bad drivers and people who said "irregardless."

"They didn't even look me in the eye," she said, voice wobbling. "Ten years. Ten years of corralling idiots and pretending I liked Susan from accounting. For what? A damn 'resource realignment initiative'? They sent me off with a pink slip, a faked apology, and a $25 Amazon gift card."

I blinked. "Wait, seriously? Twenty-five bucks?"

She looked up at me, eyes red and deadly. "I used it on this cupcake."

I peered at the mangled dessert, its icing smeared like battlefield gore across the inside of the plastic clamshell. "That cupcake better give foot rubs."

She sniffled again and gave a laugh that came out more like a snort. "You're such a jackass."

"I prefer emotionally supportive jackass," I said, inching closer. "Come here."

She leaned into me, sighing deeply. Her body was all lush heat and worn-down tension, her head finding that spot in the crook of my neck where her breath always sent little goosebumps racing across my skin.

For a moment, we just sat. Her thick thigh pressed against mine, and I rubbed her back in gentle, aimless circles. Even when she was upset, Stacey smelled like vanilla lotion and some vague citrusy thing I'd never been able to identify but now mentally filed under "my woman."

"I'll be fine," she muttered eventually, half into my shirt. "I just... I need a second to be dramatic about it, okay?"

"You've earned all the drama," I said. "You want me to burn Dale's house down?"

She sniffed. "Maybe just loosen the bolts on his desk chair."

"Done. I'll add it to my Thursday calendar between grocery pickup and screaming into a pillow."

She giggled--finally--and I felt some small piece of my soul unclench. There it was. The sound that meant we'd survive this.

She unwrapped the second cupcake like it had personally delivered the news of her termination.

"God, I swear, if Susan from accounting sends me a 'thinking of you' text with one of her ugly Bitmojis, I might drive my car through a Michaels."

I poured two glasses of wine at 3:12 p. m. and handed her one with a toast: "To corporate bloodletting, may its victims always be deliciously frosted."

She gave me a half-smile as she bit into the cupcake with a vengeance usually reserved for slow Wi-Fi. A dot of pink icing landed on her cleavage like a bullseye and stayed there, proud and unbothered.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," she said between chews. "HR's already competitive as hell. And no one's hiring someone who got laid off in July--it's like trying to sell space heaters in a sauna."

I sipped my wine and did my best impression of a supportive husband with an MBA in Bullshit. "Okay, okay, let's brainstorm. You're organized, detail-oriented, very good at telling people they're inappropriate without making them cry. That's a skill set."

She squinted. "I made three interns cry last year."

"Right, but only one of them was on purpose."

She raised a cupcake-crusted eyebrow.

"Okay," I said, regrouping. "You could be a consultant? Or a professional resume fixer? Or--I don't know--open a niche Etsy shop for aggressively supportive coffee mugs?"

She blinked at me. "You want me to become the angry mug lady?"

"I'm just saying, 'Not Today, Susan' is probably a best-seller waiting to happen."

She leaned back and sighed so hard her breasts visibly shifted up a tier. It was like watching tectonic cleavage activity. I tried not to look, failed, and immediately turned the moment into comedy because that's what I do when I'm flustered.

"Look, babe," I said, throwing caution, good sense, and some future therapy bills to the wind, "if all else fails, you could always start an OnlyFans. I mean, you've got the assets."

Her head snapped toward me.

I froze mid-sip. "That was a joke. A joke with absolutely no deeper meaning or intention behind it whatsoever."

She stared at me.

Then, slowly, she looked down at her own chest, where the icing bullseye had now spread like a breast-based oil spill.

"I mean," I added, trying to backpedal verbally while sinking deeper into the couch cushions, "your boobs are basically national monuments. The public deserves to pay admission."

She snorted, an unladylike, genuine little snort, and shook her head. "You are such an idiot."

I grinned. "But a supportive one."

She licked the icing off her finger absentmindedly and went back to finishing her wine, not saying anything.

Not not laughing either.

Just... thinking.

And somewhere deep in my lizard brain, a tiny voice whispered, oh god, what did I just start?

"Okay, hear me out," I said, swirling my wine like I was a sleazy sommelier of poor decisions. "Your page could be called 'BigMommaStace69.' That way it hits the MILF crowd, the BBW crowd, and the numerically immature all at once."

Stacey rolled her eyes so hard I swear I heard them click.

I plowed ahead anyway. "Your bio would say something like 'Curvy queen serving sass, ass, and unsolicited HR advice. Tip me and I'll tell you how to fill out your W-4.' Boom. Monetized."

She gave me a look usually reserved for people who suggest pineapple on deep dish. "You're an idiot."

"Yes, but imagine the tiers! Subscription level one: tasteful lingerie. Subscription level two: topless spreadsheet readings. Subscription level three--"

"--Let me guess," she said, wiping her fingers on a napkin with the deliberate grace of someone preparing to verbally throat-punch. "You film me naked while I lecture people on 401(k) rollover options."

I sipped. "Only if we add sound effects. Like, every time you say 'diversify your assets,' I add a boing."

She cackled. It wasn't a giggle or a chuckle or a polite lady laugh--it was the kind of deep, belly-shaking laugh that made her tits jiggle like a pair of wrestling jello molds. I considered it a personal win.

"You are so lucky you're cute," she said, nudging me with her foot.

"And you," I said, leaning back with my glass, "are one HR training video away from being a certified internet goddess."

She laughed again, but this time, it trailed off. Her eyes wandered toward the TV, but I could tell she wasn't really watching. That calculating little squint crept into her brow--the same one she used to wear when deciding if a coworker was actually confused or just lazy.

"Hey," I said gently, shifting closer. "I know I joke, but seriously... whatever you decide to do next, I'm in your corner. If you wanna take time off, change careers, start selling bathwater--hell, go live in the woods with a goat--I've got you."

She didn't answer right away, just leaned into my shoulder and sighed. "You're such a damn weirdo."

I kissed the top of her head. "And you're not denying the bathwater idea."

She elbowed me.

We ended up curled together on the couch, a rerun of some ridiculous dating show playing in the background, all loud arguments and glittery cleavage. Stacey eventually drifted off, her breathing slow and warm against my neck.

I stared at the screen, not really seeing it. My brain, traitorous bastard that it is, was already picturing her in lingerie under studio lights, saying filthy things to a faceless camera.

I didn't know it yet, but this was the last truly normal night we'd ever have on that couch.

Later that night, our bedroom was quiet, the only sounds a soft fan whirring in the corner and the occasional crinkle of bedsheets as Stacey shifted beside me.

I was halfway through a YouTube rabbit hole titled "10 Celebrity Clones the Government Doesn't Want You to Know About"--as one does when unemployed adjacent--when I noticed her screen glowing a bit too bright.

She wasn't doomscrolling. She wasn't on Facebook judging old high school rivals for aging badly. She wasn't even reading her usual "true crime but make it horny" murder-mystery smut.

No.

She was watching a YouTube video titled: "How I Made $32K in 3 Months on OnlyFans (No Nudity!)"

I blinked.

Twice.

Then, like a fool, I opened my mouth. "So... are we learning to budget, or are you planning to flash strangers for rent money?"

She didn't look up. "Technically, both are financial strategies."

"You know I was kidding earlier, right?" I said, turning onto my side to face her. "I was being the lovable, irresponsible comic relief. Like the hot one in every sitcom who never has a job but always has beer."

She tapped something on her screen and squinted. "This chick made twelve grand just doing feet pics and being mean to dudes with anime profile pics. I've been mean to those guys for free."

My brain short-circuited. "Is... is this foreplay? Because I feel very conflicted."

She finally looked over at me. Her expression was unreadable--a mix of curiosity, mischief, and that terrifying HR-style confidence that once got her an entire regional manager fired for using Comic Sans in a PowerPoint.

"Hypothetically," she said slowly, "if I were to consider this--just consider it--would you help me set it up?"

I blinked. "Hypothetically?"

She smiled. "Don't act surprised. You're the one who called my boobs 'national monuments.'"

"Well, I meant that in a patriotic way."

Her foot found mine under the blanket, warm and deliberate. She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek--not sweet, not romantic, but like someone staking a flag.

"You," she murmured, "might not be such a dumbass after all."

Then she rolled over, leaving me staring at the ceiling, caught somewhere between a boner and an existential crisis.

----------

I woke to the sound of pancakes.

Not the smell--though that came shortly after--but the sound. The unmistakable sizzle of batter hitting hot pan, the soft clatter of spatula against nonstick. A happy sound. A sound I had absolutely no business hearing on a Tuesday morning from a woman who, 24 hours ago, was threatening to set Dale's car on fire using only a tampon and righteous indignation.

I stumbled into the kitchen, half-dressed and already suspicious.

And there she was.

Stacey. In a red silk robe that looked like it had been designed for a high-end brothel located inside a volcano. Her hair was up in a messy bun, her hips were swaying lightly to music only she could hear, and her cleavage... well, I'm a married man, not a corpse.

"Morning," she chirped, flipping a pancake with an unnecessary amount of wrist flourish.

I blinked. "Did I die in my sleep? Is this heaven? Because if so, I have some notes--mostly involving the bills still on the counter."

She smirked. "Nope. You're very much alive. And about to be my unpaid tech support."

That's when I noticed her laptop on the counter, open to what looked suspiciously like a content creator dashboard. My brain did the math. Pancakes. Robe. Suspicious cheer.

Oh no.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes." She plated a stack of pancakes with the solemn pride of someone launching a nuclear program and slid them in front of me. "I've made a decision. I'm starting an OnlyFans."

I stared.

She sat down opposite me, grabbed her coffee, and said it again, this time slower: "I. Am. Starting. An. OnlyFans."

I looked down at the pancakes like they might offer advice.

She leaned in, smiling. "And I need your help setting it up. You're good with cameras. Lighting. All that nerd stuff."

I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. "You're... serious?"

"As a hangnail on a tight bra strap."

"And this is just photos?" I asked cautiously. "Like tasteful boudoir? Artsy cleavage shots with strategic shadows and inspirational quotes in the captions?"

"Exactly," she nodded, then paused. "Well. For now."

I coughed into my coffee.

"And you used the name?" I asked, gesturing at the screen. "BigMommaStace? I made that up as a joke. I was going to add a 69!"

She shrugged. "I dropped the 69. Felt like trying too hard."

"But you kept the rest."

"It was catchy."

I shook my head in disbelief. "So let me get this straight. Yesterday, you were crying into a cupcake about corporate betrayal. Today, you're building a fanbase for your breasts with the brand identity of a cartoon dominatrix."

She beamed. "Progress!"

I took a bite of the pancakes. They were perfect, of course. Warm, fluffy, buttery--infuriatingly competent pancakes.

"You're really doing this?" I said, mouth full.

"Already picked out my first outfit," she said, sipping coffee. "Now eat up. We've got lighting to figure out."

I stared at her for a long moment.

And then I realized: this wasn't just coping.

This was Stacey in full transformation mode.

And God help me, I was a little turned on.

We sat at the kitchen table, mid-morning sun pouring through the blinds like a judgmental spotlight, both of us hunched over Stacey's laptop as if we were trying to defuse a very curvy bomb.

"Username," she muttered, typing slowly, dramatically. "Big. Momma. Stace."

I snorted. "It still sounds like a blues singer who moonlights as a dominatrix."

She grinned. "Exactly the vibe I'm going for."

She skipped the 69 without hesitation, which, frankly, showed more restraint than I thought she was capable of. "Tagline?" she asked, turning to me.

I raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me for branding advice for your adult content page?"

"You're the one who got me into this mess," she said. "Now help me write a sentence that says, 'Hi, I'm sexy, but also probably make a mean pot roast.'"

"Okay..." I leaned in, fingers steepled. "How about: 'Curves, confidence, and cleavage. Come get cozy with BigMomma.'"

She tilted her head. "Are we trying to attract horny dudes or sell seasonal throw pillows on Etsy?"

We debated taglines for ten full minutes. She vetoed:

"Juicy, classy, and occasionally bossy."

"BBW bombshell serving full-course content."

"Your new addiction, now with extra thighs."

Eventually, she typed: "Big, bold, and built for sin. Let Momma take care of you."

I blinked. "Okay, now that sounds like a woman who knows how to both ride and reprimand."

She clicked "Save" with a triumphant sigh. "Banking info next."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is this the point where I pretend to be shocked you already created a business Venmo last night?"

She gave me a look. The look. The one that said, Of course I did, you adorable moron.

Fifteen minutes later, the account was live. Bio filled, profile pic selected (a sultry selfie she took in the robe while I was brushing my teeth), and the first post drafted but not yet published.

Then came the part that made my palms sweat.

"All right," she said, standing up and stretching in a way that made her robe ride up and my soul leave my body, "let's take some practice shots."

I blinked. "Now?"

"No time like the present," she said, disappearing into the bedroom.

I followed like a man heading toward either destiny or divorce, depending on lighting.

She emerged in a black lacy bra and matching high-waisted panties, the robe gone, her skin glowing in the natural light. She looked nervous--just a flicker--but mostly she looked like someone who'd decided her ass deserved a larger audience.

"You ready?" she asked, biting her lip and handing me her phone.

"I am many things," I said, holding the phone like it was a holy relic. "Ready is not one of them."

I tried different angles. Overhead? Too voyeur-y. Low angle? Dangerous--gravity is not kind to jowls or testicles. Natural light? Harsh shadows. Bathroom lighting? Flattering, but the toothpaste splatter on the mirror ruined the fantasy.

She posed with her back arched on the bed, then standing, then leaning on the dresser like she was about to issue an ultimatum. Every so often, she'd laugh mid-shot, and I'd snap a blurry photo of her grinning, hair wild, tits barely contained. Those ended up being the hottest ones.

"I feel like a weird combination of perv and wedding photographer," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead.

She winked. "Then I think we're on the right track."

"I haven't worn this since our honeymoon," Stacey said, holding up a black lace teddy like it was a haunted artifact from a much hornier past.

"That thing?" I blinked. "I thought it got lost in the Cancun luggage incident."

"It was hidden behind my Spanx collection. Which is ironic, because this thing defies compression science."

She ducked into the bathroom and emerged moments later like a walking thirst trap that had stumbled out of a vintage lingerie catalog--and then ate the catalog for breakfast. Her thighs filled the high-cut leg openings like destiny, the soft lace hugging her belly and breasts in a way that made me question why we ever stopped booking hotels with mirrors on the ceiling.

"You sure you want to start with that one?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from cracking like a pubescent teen near a cheerleader.

"If I'm gonna do this," she said, adjusting a strap, "I'm not half-assing it. I'm full-assing it. Possibly even double-cheeking it."

She strutted into the kitchen, barefoot, all attitude and soft jiggle, and leaned over the counter with casual seduction. "How's this for a pose?"

I nearly dropped the phone. "Are we... using the kitchen for this?"

She turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. "The kitchen has the best natural light and a built-in surface to bend over. Your argument?"

"... None. Proceed."

She tried a few different setups--leaning seductively against the fridge, perched provocatively on the counter (after sanitizing it because even in the throes of amateur porn, she's still a germaphobe), and one where she "accidentally" dropped her towel stepping out of the hallway bathroom.

That shot nearly ended me.

Somewhere between take seven and take twenty-two, the laughter stopped feeling awkward and started feeling... hot. The giggles softened. Her smiles got slower. Her eyes locked onto mine longer. The joking diminished, and the air thickened with something heavier than sarcasm.

"This feel weird to you?" she asked softly, fixing the strap that kept slipping off her shoulder like it had a personal grudge against modesty.

"Less weird," I said, stepping closer, "more like foreplay with a marketing budget."

She grinned. "I was just thinking--"

And then the teddy snapped off her shoulder again, and instead of fixing it, she pulled it lower.

I didn't take a photo that time.

I dropped the phone entirely.

The phone skidded across the carpet, mercifully landing camera-up and still recording. I would discover this later--after the sex, after the cleanup, after the emergency apology text to Stacey's sister for accidentally uploading something to the shared photo album.

But in that moment?

I wasn't thinking about cloud storage.

I was thinking about my wife, standing in our kitchen in a half-open lace teddy, looking at me like I was dessert.

She stepped toward me slowly, her hips moving in that deliberate sway she usually reserved for post-wine struts and especially manipulative Christmas mornings. My back hit the edge of the ottoman before I even realized I'd retreated.

"You okay?" she asked, hovering over me, hands braced on the sides of the cushioned bench like she was about to interrogate me--with her thighs.

I looked up at her--glowing, grinning, her breasts practically falling out of the teddy's neckline. "I feel like I'm being mugged by lust."

"Good," she whispered, lowering herself onto my lap with infuriating slowness. "I want you to remember this next time you suggest I do something for a laugh."

Her weight settled against me--warm, soft, overwhelming in the best possible way. She began to grind, slow at first, the lace of her lingerie brushing against the thin fabric of my boxers like static electricity dipped in sin. Her lips found my neck. Her tongue found my earlobe.

I groaned.

"Still think this was a dumb idea?" she murmured.

My only answer was a growl and the distinct sound of elastic being pushed to its limit. She gasped as I pulled the lace aside, running my fingers along her slick heat, her thighs clamping around my hand like she'd trained them to crush men's egos on command.

We barely got anything off--just enough. Her panties pushed aside, my boxers shoved down, our bodies fumbling but eager. She lowered herself onto me with a shudder that made her moan against my mouth and made my soul briefly leave my body for a scenic tour of the heavens.

The ottoman creaked like an old man watching two people have sex on his chest and deeply resenting it.

I thrust upward. She rode down. Our rhythm became a messy, frenzied blur of skin and breath and whispered filth. Her hair fell in my face. Her tits bounced in glorious rebellion. My hands gripped her hips so tight I half-expected bruises--and fully intended to apologize afterward.

"Oh fuck--" she gasped, head thrown back.

"Same," I panted, on the edge of bliss and structural collapse.

And then it hit us both--her first, body convulsing around me, and then me, bucking upward with a curse and a strangled shout, our moans overlapping like the worst duet in the best porno.

We collapsed together, sticky and breathless, sprawled across the ottoman like the world's least family-friendly living room art.

She giggled first.

Then I did.

Then the ottoman groaned, one leg giving the tiniest crack.

We looked at each other.

"Add furniture replacement to the business expenses," I muttered.

She kissed my forehead and murmured, "Worth it."

----------

The first photo went up that afternoon, at precisely 2:41 p. m.--a time Stacey had researched as "peak thirst window" based on several OnlyFans marketing subreddits and a spreadsheet she titled Horny Traffic Patterns: A Study.

The image itself was relatively tame. She was posed on the edge of our bed, clad in the black lace teddy from the ottoman incident, one leg tucked under the other and her hand teasing the edge of the strap like it might slip (it wouldn't, not yet). Her smile was half coy, half "I'm trying not to giggle at the cat chewing a charger cord behind the camera."

The caption read:

"Big Momma says it's time for your lunch break ????"

Stacey had written it with a combination of pride and deep, spiritual embarrassment.

"Is this too much?" she asked, hovering her finger over the "Post" button like it was wired to a detonator.

"It's not even close to enough," I said, handing her a glass of wine. "I've seen more scandalous content in department store perfume ads."

She took a deep breath, hit "Post," and immediately closed the laptop like it had insulted her personally.

We waited.

By waited, I mean we sat on the couch staring at the closed laptop like it might start vibrating with approval from the internet gods.

After exactly nine minutes and one-and-a-half glasses of wine, she caved.

"Okay I can't stand it," she said, flipping the laptop back open.

One view. No likes.

"Okay," she said quickly, "well, people are probably still at work. Or dead. It's fine."

"It's been nine minutes," I said. "That's barely enough time for someone to scroll past feet pics and cry into their ramen."

She closed it again.

Then opened it a minute later.

Still one view. Still no likes.

"I hate this," she muttered.

"You just need momentum," I said. "Like those dominos you knock over. Or pyramid schemes."

We waited a little longer. She scrolled through her camera roll. "Should I post a video? Just something short? Like a tease?"

"Yes," I said, already holding the ring light like a budget pornographer. "Let's film a teaser."

She did a short clip--nothing fancy. Just her in the teddy, lying back on the bed, purring something like, "Is Big Momma distracting you from your meetings again?" before laughing halfway through and rolling onto her side with a very non-sexy "Jesus Christ, this is so weird."

We edited out the "Jesus Christ" part.

That clip went up fifteen minutes after the photo.

Five minutes later, the first like hit.

We both jumped like we'd heard a gunshot.

"It happened," she whispered.

"We're famous," I said.

Then we watched in silence as another view appeared. Then two more. Then a comment:

"Goddess energy ????"

Stacey stared at it like it was a secret message from another realm. "That's... really nice."

"See?" I said, nudging her. "You've got fans."

"One fan."

"Well, he's passionate."

She bit her lip and looked down at the keyboard.

Then, very quietly: "I want more."

"Okay," Stacey said, hands on her hips, standing in the doorway of our bedroom in a burgundy satin robe she'd clearly been saving for a moment of cinematic importance. "Let's shoot something longer. More... seductive."

I nodded, holding the ring light with the grim determination of a man who once watched three hours of YouTube tutorials on "How to Make Your Wife Look Like a Goddess Using a $29 Tripod."

"Lighting's ready," I said. "Sound's off. I locked the door so your mom can't FaceTime mid-strip again."

She gave me a look. "One time."

"One deeply traumatizing time."

She stepped into frame, the robe slipping just enough to show the top swell of her breasts. I hit record.

The music was something she found on a royalty-free site labeled "Mid-Tempo Lounge with Sexual Tension," which sounded like a rejected James Bond soundtrack. Still, it did the job.

She began to move--slow, swaying hips, sultry eyes--and within three seconds, she tripped over the cat.

"GODDAMMIT BISCUIT," she shouted, hopping on one foot, robe flying open and camera catching the exact moment the mood died.

I hit stop. "We can edit around that."

We could not.

Take two: she tried again. This time, no tripping. She did a full slow turn, her hands grazing her thighs, the robe slipping lower and lower--

--and her phone buzzed.

She broke character to check it.

"Stace."

"It might be a tip!"

"It's an email about coupons."

She sighed.

Take three: She nailed the pace, teased the robe open, let it fall just off her shoulders...

... and then laughed halfway through.

"Sorry," she said, giggling. "I just remembered that guy who once told me I looked like a sexy refrigerator."

I blinked. "Was that... a compliment?"

"I think so. He was very enthusiastic about large appliances."

We kept rolling.

Eventually--miraculously--we got a good take. No tripping. No distractions. Just Stacey, slowly peeling the robe off her shoulders, tossing her hair like a shampoo commercial designed by Satan, and crawling onto the bed with a purr so convincing it made me forget the cat had barfed there last week.

We watched the footage together.

"Wow," she said softly, a little stunned at herself. "I look... hot."

"You look like every fantasy I've ever had after three beers and no adult supervision."

She flushed, genuinely flattered, and nodded toward the laptop. "Okay. Let's post it."

I uploaded the clip, added fade-in and a tasteful title card that read "Big Momma's First Tease ????", and hit publish.

She turned to me, grinning. "You're officially my editor-slash-perv."

I raised my hands solemnly. "And I vow to fulfill both roles with honor and excessive zoom-ins."

By hour three, we had refreshed the page 43 times.

"Forty-four," Stacey corrected, clicking the reload button with the steely resolve of a woman watching her stocks crash in slow motion.

The numbers weren't bad--they just weren't exciting. Ten likes, four new subscribers, one tip of five dollars with the comment:

"You're a real snack, Big Momma. Can't wait for more ????"

Which was sweet. And a little unsettling. And also made us both whisper "a real snack?" in unison before dissolving into nervous laughter.

Still, Stacey was clearly underwhelmed.

"I mean... it's okay," she said, biting her thumbnail like it owed her money. "I guess I thought there'd be more... I don't know. Momentum."

"You've been live for seven hours," I said gently. "Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither were horny fanbases."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

I did. She wasn't upset. Not yet. But I could see the familiar gears grinding behind her eyes--strategic gears, stubborn gears. The gears that once got her promoted after telling her boss his PowerPoint transitions made her physically ill.

"You're doing great," I said, nudging her shoulder. "And that video was hot. I mean, the cat hair was minimal, your boobs had perfect lighting, and your voice was, frankly, threatening to my cardiovascular health."

She cracked a smile. "Thanks."

"And," I added, "you only swore at Biscuit twice."

She laughed, but it was softer now. She closed the laptop and leaned into me on the couch, sighing like a balloon slowly giving up.

"I just want it to be worth something, you know?" she murmured.

"It already is," I said. "You looked amazing, you felt confident, and we had sex so good it injured furniture. That's value."

She snorted.

We watched TV after that--something trashy involving people throwing drinks and confessing to sex crimes in yachts--but I noticed her phone stay clutched in her hand.

Later that night, long after I'd passed out with half a pretzel in my mouth, she was still up.

Still scrolling.

Still researching.

When I blinked awake at 2 a. m., I saw her squinting at her phone, murmuring: "Okay, so... JOI... what the hell is that?"

----------

I found Stacey in her usual morning nesting position: perched on the couch, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket that looked like it had been stolen from a yeti, a steaming mug in one hand and her phone in the other. Her brow furrowed in the same intense, calculating way it had when she once sued an HOA into submission over flower pot regulations.

"Morning," I said, scratching at the waistband of sweatpants that had seen better decades. "You look like you're solving a crime."

"Porn economics," she replied without looking up.

"... Of course."

I grabbed my coffee and sat beside her. "Dare I ask?"

She turned the phone so I could see. "These are content trend charts. These--" she swiped--"are subcategory breakdowns. These--" another swipe--"are keyword frequency maps."

I blinked. "Did you make a heatmap for fetish tags?"

She gave me a look. "I may have color-coded JOI versus foot fetishes versus cosplay MILFs, yes."

I sipped. "You're kind of terrifying."

She turned the phone back to herself. "It's called market research, and it turns out 'Jerk Off Instruction'--or JOI--is huge. Especially if it's done with a dominant, nurturing vibe. Think sexy authority figure meets bedtime story."

"That sounds... oddly specific."

"And profitable," she added, scrolling. "Some of these girls are raking in thousands. All they do is talk. No nudity in some of them."

"And people pay for that?"

She smirked. "Baby, these men are lonely, horny, and deeply committed to the illusion that someone gives a shit about their dicks. That's our market."

"Our market?"

"You're the cameraman. If I go pro, you go pro."

I held up my hands. "All I ask is to keep my union breaks and not get hit with any more rogue ring lights."

She stood, suddenly energized, and began pacing in her robe. "I want to try one. A real video. Scripted. We'll do some light roleplay. Nothing too intense. Just me, talking to the camera, giving soft instructions. Mommy-style. You know--teasing but sweet. Bossy but nurturing."

I raised an eyebrow. "Did you just say 'Mommy-style' like that's a regular thing we say?"

She ignored me and started scribbling in a notebook. "I need better lighting. And a chair that doesn't squeak. And maybe a glass of wine before I shoot because if I say 'stroke it for Mommy' sober, I'm going to explode from internal cringe."

"I'd explode from something else entirely," I muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

She looked up at me with that glint in her eye again--the same one she'd had when she first told me she wanted to start the page. It was part mischief, part ambition, and part "you're absolutely getting laid later."

I realized something just then.

Stacey didn't just want to dabble.

She wanted to dominate.

That night, our bedroom looked like a low-budget film studio run by horny raccoons with a mild Amazon addiction.

Ring lights stood on tripods like glowing gods of judgment. The bed was made--not just "sheets pulled up" made, but hotel-turn-down made. A small folding chair sat in front of it, flanked by soft diffusers and a strategically placed mirror angled for "maximum tit reflection."

"I feel like we're summoning something," I said, setting up the second light.

Stacey walked in wearing a wine-colored silk slip and carrying a notebook labeled: "JOI Script Draft 1 -- DO NOT LAUGH."

"This is either going to be really hot or go horribly wrong," she said, flopping onto the chair and immediately sliding off it in an unsexy whoop.

We got her reseated. Adjusted the lighting. She took a deep breath, opened the notebook, and began to practice.

Her first attempt was pure nerves.

"Okay, uh... hi there, baby... boy? Babe? Shit." She cleared her throat. "I want you to... gently... no, firmly? Start stroking your..."

She burst out laughing.

"Dick. Just say dick," I offered, from behind the camera.

"I can't just say it," she gasped. "It has to unfold from the vibe."

"Right. Unfold. Like a warm dick croissant."

She threw a pillow at me.

Take two was better. She settled into a tone--low, smooth, just shy of a whisper. It gave me goosebumps. She smiled at the camera, tilted her head, and purred:

"Good boy. That's it. Slow strokes. Mommy's watching..."

And then immediately collapsed into a fit of giggles.

"Sorry!" she squeaked, burying her face in her hands. "It's just--it's so weird! I mean, who wants to be told to jerk off like they're in a private school and forgot their homework?"

"Evidently... a lot of people," I said, shifting awkwardly behind the camera to hide the fact that my pants had officially turned into a sauna.

Eventually, she found her rhythm.

She dropped her voice even lower.

"Don't stop. I didn't say you could finish yet."

Something about her tone made my legs lock up. It wasn't just sexy--it was commanding. And when she looked into the camera like she could see through it, right to whoever was on the other end?

I had to pretend I wasn't on the verge of spontaneous combustion.

We ran a few takes, each one smoother than the last. Stacey was still laughing a bit between lines, but not nervously--confidently. Like she was cracking herself up while fully in control of the scene.

After the last one, she looked over at me and raised an eyebrow.

"You're breathing weird."

"Am I?"

"You sound like a guy hiding a boner behind a clipboard."

I didn't respond.

Mostly because I was hiding a boner behind the clipboard.

The room was quiet.

Not awkward quiet. Not tension quiet.

This was pregame quiet--the kind of stillness before a performance, or a thunderstorm, or a deeply confusing boner.

Stacey sat on the chair, ankles crossed, fingers draped casually over the armrests like she was about to lecture a misbehaving student--or order someone's soul into her cleavage.

Her wine-colored slip clung to her body like a contract with the devil. Her hair was down now, framing her face in lazy waves. She gave me a small nod.

"Rolling," I whispered, hitting record.

She didn't speak at first.

She just looked--straight into the lens, chin tilted slightly down, eyes steady and slow-blinking. My spine lit up like a Christmas tree wired wrong.

Then, in a voice that felt like velvet and vice grips:

"Well, well... Look who couldn't wait to see Mommy."

I swallowed.

Through the viewfinder, she was magnetic. Her voice was smooth but commanding--like honey poured over a steel rod. She let the silence stretch, smiling faintly.

"Poor thing. I bet you've been so hard all day, just waiting for me to say something dirty, haven't you?"

Another pause.

"You can stroke it. Slowly."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, the slip parting just enough to flash the top of her breasts. Her voice dipped to a whisper.

"But you don't get to come until I say so. You understand, baby?"

I actually lost the ability to blink.

She kept going. Five minutes of teasing, coaxing, low murmurs like she was speaking directly into the ear of every desperate subscriber watching. She'd scripted it--but she didn't read. She commanded. She adapted. Improv'd.

"Let me see how obedient you can be," she purred. "That's right. Just like that. Don't you dare speed up, or Mommy will stop. And if I stop, you'll be left there aching all night. You want that?"

I felt my knees wobble. I wasn't even on camera.

She finished the video with a slow smile, blowing a kiss to the lens and murmuring, "Maybe if you're good... I'll let you finish tomorrow."

Click.

I stopped recording.

She sat up, stretching her arms over her head with a yawn that made her breasts shift in the kind of way that gets fan fiction written about it.

"Well?" she asked, smiling. "Too much?"

I cleared my throat, willing blood to return to my brain. "I... need a moment."

She laughed.

"No," I said, lowering the camera, "you need to see this. You just unlocked a whole damn superpower."

She didn't break character when the camera stopped rolling.

That should've been my first warning.

Stacey stayed seated on the chair, back straight, eyes still locked on me with that same smile--the one that said, You're mine, and also, You're about to question all your life choices in a deeply erotic way.

I set the camera down on the nightstand like it was made of porcelain and I had exactly one brain cell left to spare. Which, for the record, I did.

Then she stood. Slowly. Deliberately.

Walked over to me--each step soft and measured, hips swaying in a rhythm that had nothing to do with balance and everything to do with menace.

"You did a good job, baby," she murmured, brushing a hand over the very obvious tent in my pants. "So good, standing there with your little camera... trying so hard to focus."

I opened my mouth to speak. Words failed. She took that as permission, which--let's be honest--it was.

She climbed into my lap, straddling me in the chair, the silk of her slip sliding up her thighs until I could see the line of her panties hugging her curves like worship.

Her voice went low again, brushing against my ear like wind and sin. "Did it turn you on? Watching me talk to them like that? Knowing they were jerking it... just imagining my voice?"

I whimpered. Actual, involuntary whimper.

She pressed her hips against me, rolling them slowly, grinding just enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. "Bet you wanted to stroke it too. But you didn't. Good boy."

Her hand slid inside my waistband, wrapping around me with practiced ease. She didn't pump--just held me. Owned me.

"You don't get to come until I say so," she whispered, still fully in JOI mode.

She kissed my neck, soft and slow, then bit just below my jaw in a way that made me arch.

She began to move again--grinding, whispering. Her hand tugged my boxers down just enough, then pulled hers aside, and suddenly I was inside her, heat and wetness and pressure all at once.

She rode me in long, slow strokes, every movement full of intention. Her eyes stayed locked on mine the whole time--no giggles, no commentary. Just quiet control and the occasional whispered order.

"Not yet," she whispered when I bucked up. "You stay right there."

She gripped my shoulders, rolled her hips, took everything she wanted and gave just enough to keep me hovering on the edge.

When she finally leaned in and whispered, "You may come now," I exploded like my body had been holding back for a year.

We stayed tangled in the chair for a long time after, breathing like we'd just run a marathon in hell.

She finally sat up, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Well," she said, voice hoarse, "that was very instructional."

I nodded weakly. "Can I request a second lesson?"

She grinned. "Only if you're good."

----------

I was jolted awake by a vibrating phone, a squeal, and the unmistakable sound of Stacey doing a happy clap while still in bed.

"Babe! Babe. Baaabe!"

I groaned, rolling over like a man recovering from emotional whiplash and physical dehydration. "Is this about breakfast or are you about to show me a meme that you know I won't find funny?"

She shoved her phone in front of my face. "Look."

I blinked. Notifications. So many notifications. My bleary eyes adjusted enough to see words like "tip received," "new subscriber," "DM request," and, my personal favorite:

"Mommy ruined me ????????????."

"Holy shit," I muttered, sitting up. "You went viral?"

She beamed, practically vibrating with smug joy. "Not viral-viral. But, like, baby-viral. Fetish-viral. Micro-niche Mommy kink viral."

"How many views?"

"Over 4,000," she said, giddy. "Thirty-two new subscribers. Eight tips overnight. And--" she flicked to another screen, "--this guy offered me $100 for a custom voice message calling him a 'naughty boy who deserves blue balls.'"

I blinked again. "A hundred bucks? To not come?"

She nodded, eyes wild. "Turns out there's a market for maternal teasing. Who knew?"

"I mean..." I looked her up and down, still deliciously rumpled from sleep, tank top askew, hair a wild halo. "It tracks."

She leaned in and kissed my cheek. "You edited that video perfectly. The lighting. The close-ups. The pacing. You made me look like a goddess."

"You are a goddess," I mumbled, still reeling. "I just captured it in 1080p."

She tapped her screen again and read out a few comments.

"Mommy energy off the charts."

"Instant sub. Her voice is everything."

"She made me edge for 15 mins and I'd thank her again."

She grinned at that one. "Fifteen minutes? Pfft. Amateur."

I chuckled, but a part of me--deep in the lizard-brain corner--felt a twinge of something else. Not jealousy, exactly. More like... displacement.

This wasn't just a private thrill anymore.

She had fans.

Real fans. Simping, tipping, stroking fans who hung on her every whispered "good boy."

"Feeling okay about all this?" she asked suddenly, as if sensing the brief flicker behind my eyes.

I smiled, reaching for her hip and pulling her closer. "I'm proud of you. It's just surreal. Like... you're going full-on sex witch and I'm over here like a production intern hoping I don't accidentally film my balls."

She laughed. "Well, my production intern is getting a raise today."

"Is that code for something?"

"Oh yeah," she said, climbing into my lap. "But first--brunch."

Brunch used to be mimosas, eggs, and pretending we didn't hate the other people in the café.

Now, brunch was Stacey in a tight tank top and no pants, licking honey off her finger while casually discussing blowjob cinematography over French toast.

She sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, still basking in the post-mini-viral glow, tapping through her notifications like a trader on the floor of a very specific, very perverted stock exchange.

"So," she said between bites, "I want to try something new."

"Please tell me it's a food video where you just eat strawberries while whispering insults."

She smirked. "No. I want to do a blowjob video."

I choked on a piece of toast.

She passed me my water, unfazed. "Relax. I don't mean some guy. I mean you."

I blinked. "Wait--me-me?"

"Yeah. POV style. You don't even have to show your face. Just the goods."

I stared at her, chewing like a man trying to understand where exactly in life he zigged when he should've zagged.

"Stace," I said slowly, "do you remember when we couldn't even agree on whether leaving the bathroom door open was 'too intimate'?"

"That was a different era. A pre-Mommy era."

I dropped my fork. "Oh god, are you talking about staying in character?"

"Obviously," she said, licking syrup from her lips with zero awareness that she was committing a hate crime against my ability to focus. "We'll make it a roleplay. Like... 'Stepson caught peeking on Mommy' type thing."

My entire body went still.

"... Did you just say--"

"Shhh," she said, waving her fork like a conductor. "Let the shame wash over you. Then ride it. That's how these fetishes work."

I stared. She sipped her mimosa like nothing unusual had just left her mouth.

"Look," she added, "we'll keep it tasteful. Well... relatively. It'll be POV, cropped above the waist. I'll do all the work--obviously." She winked. "And it'll make the simps go insane."

I tried to find an argument. Morals? Nah. Modesty? Dead. Dignity? We lost that somewhere around "stroke it for Mommy."

"I..." I cleared my throat. "I mean. If you think it'll help your page..."

"Oh, I know it will."

She stood, walked around the table, and leaned over me--cleavage front and center, syrup still on her lips.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "Mommy will take good care of you."

We kept the setup simple--clean white sheets, soft lighting, the good tripod, and the one ring light Stacey swore made her eyes "pop like sex sorcery."

I lay on the bed, half-naked, nerves fraying with every minute. She adjusted the camera one last time, propped it high enough to capture from my chest down--no face, just abs, dick, and shame.

"Okay," she said, snapping her hair tie loose with that ominous confidence she now weaponized with the precision of a small-country dictator. "You ready, 'stepson'?"

"Every time you say it out loud, a part of my soul calls a lawyer."

She climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, her body in a soft pink babydoll that looked like it had lost an argument with her thighs. She leaned into the frame and tapped record.

And just like that--Mommy was back.

"Ohh, what's this?" she purred, crawling up between my legs. "Were you spying on Mommy again, baby boy?"

I swallowed.

"You know you're not supposed to be peeking while Mommy changes. That's very... naughty."

Her voice wrapped around me like velvet dipped in guilt.

"I guess I should punish you..." she trailed a finger up my thigh, feather-light. "Or maybe... just remind you who's in charge around here."

Her eyes locked on my cock, now at full attention, entirely without permission. She licked her lips and gave a fake, scandalized gasp.

"Ohhh, look at that. You're hard for Mommy already?"

I whimpered.

She leaned down, kissed just above the shaft, and murmured, "Such a bad little boy..."

Then she took me in her mouth.

Slow. Wet. Deep.

The kind of blowjob that rewires your religious beliefs.

She bobbed her head gradually, her eyes flicking up to the camera every few seconds, then back to me, as if daring me to lose control. Her hands gripped my thighs, holding me still, her moans soft and low like background music from a fever dream.

It wasn't just porn--it was domination.

"Don't you dare cum yet," she whispered between sucks. "Mommy didn't give you permission."

I bit my knuckle, already teetering on the edge.

She picked up speed, adding a messy swirl of tongue at the tip that made my toes curl and my brain delete a few childhood memories.

Sloppier now. Louder. The obscene sound of spit and rhythm filled the room, and I felt myself crossing some invisible threshold where I was no longer just acting--I was clinging to the bedspread like it had answers.

Then--without breaking eye contact--she whispered:

"Good boys finish on cue. Now."

I came so hard I nearly dislocated a rib.

She stayed down until the last spasm faded, her mouth still wrapped around me, then slowly pulled back, a string of spit breaking like the credits on a movie you didn't want to end.

She smiled at the camera and whispered, "That's Mommy's good boy..."

Click.

Recording stopped.

I lay there, boneless, possibly reborn.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered. "That... that was..."

"Extremely profitable," she said, licking her lips. "Also--very fun."

We sat side by side on the bed afterward, both still in that post-nuclear-orgasm haze where movement felt unnecessary and words felt too ambitious.

Stacey handed me my water bottle and gave me a proud, wicked little smile. "You okay? You went full jellyfish at the end there."

"I don't think I blinked for three solid minutes."

"Good. That means it'll read well on camera."

She cued up the playback.

The footage was... intense.

The POV worked beautifully. The way she stayed in character--alternating between soft teasing and firm control--was hypnotic. The sloppiness, the eye contact, the exact moment my toes curled like I was being electrocuted--it was all there.

Raw. Real. Filthy.

She sat with her hand on my thigh as we watched it back, her thumb tracing little circles absentmindedly, as if to remind me who I belonged to--even in post-production.

We cut it down a bit, added a quick fade-in and one of her new custom intro screens that read:

"BigMommaStace's Discipline Series: Ep 1 -- Naughty Boys Get Blowjobs (Sometimes)"

We uploaded it at 10:37 p. m.

By midnight, it already had twenty comments and more likes than her JOI video.

By morning... it had tripled.

We sat at the breakfast table, both in bathrobes, coffee untouched.

The comments were flooding in:

"That mouth is dangerous ????????????"

"Mommy's throat game is elite."

"New sub. Take all my money."

And then:

"Would've hit different with a real cock."

"She needs something bigger."

"When do we get to see her with a man who can fill her?"

I felt my stomach drop.

I knew it was coming--logically. I wasn't an idiot. This was the internet. It was 90% porn, 9% people asking for refunds, and 1% aggressively unrequested opinions about dick size.

But it still landed like a slap.

Stacey stared at the screen, chewing her lip.

"Ignore those," she said casually, voice just a little too light. "They're just insecure. You were amazing."

I forced a grin. "Hey, as long as you're happy."

She looked at me--really looked--and for a second, I saw the flicker of worry behind her eyes.

Then she closed the laptop.

"They don't matter," she said, pulling me close. "You're my good boy. Always."

And for now... that was enough.

----------

There's a kind of ache that comes from reading internet comments about your penis.

I sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, watching the latest stats roll in. The video had crossed 10,000 views. Tips were flooding in. Her sub count had nearly doubled.

And all I could see were the dicks.

More specifically, the implied dicks--the ones in the comments that weren't mine.

"Give her a real one next time."

"She deserves a man with some meat."

"That was hot but we need to see her stuffed."

I scrolled, each sentence digging a little deeper. It was like a psychological paper cut--doesn't kill you, just stings like hell for no good reason.

"You're doing it again," Stacey said from the stove, flipping pancakes like she was hosting a brunch-themed intervention.

"I'm not doing anything," I muttered, locking my phone.

"You're brooding," she said. "You only brood when you're spiraling or when the neighbors mow their lawn at weird hours."

"I'm fine."

"Liar."

She plated pancakes with a dramatic flourish and slid them in front of me. Then sat down and looked me square in the eye.

"Okay. Let's talk about the dick in the room."

I choked on a bite.

She raised an eyebrow. "You want to say it's not bothering you, but I know you. You spiral in silence and make snarky jokes until you combust."

"I do not combust."

"You literally threw a shoe at a raccoon last week because it looked 'judgmental.'"

I sighed. "I just... I didn't expect people to be that vocal about what my dick isn't."

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "You're amazing. You're mine. And 99% of those comments are just horny people saying whatever gets them off."

"And the other 1%?"

"Still horny. Just mean about it."

There was a pause.

Then she said it.

"I've been thinking about... bringing someone in. Just for the camera. A prop, basically."

I blinked.

"Like... an actor?"

She nodded slowly. "A performer. No face, no names, no weirdness. Just a body. For the fantasy. To help the page grow."

I stared at her. "You want to bring in a penis stunt double."

"Yes," she said. "Exactly. A stunt cock."

I pushed my plate away. "I don't know."

"It wouldn't be sex," she said quickly. "Not real sex. Not with him. He's just there. I talk to the camera. You film. It's just theater."

"Porn theater."

She gave me that look--the one that said I love you, but I will absolutely bully you into growth.

"It's just for the page," she added, gently. "You'd be in the room. You'd have final say. But it might help me take it further. Safely. Professionally. No intimacy. Just content."

I rubbed my temples.

The idea made me nauseous. And hard.

"I'll think about it," I mumbled.

She kissed my cheek. "That's all I'm asking."

The doorbell rang at exactly 2 p. m.--a punctuality I would've respected under any other circumstance.

Instead, I just stood there, heart thudding, wondering if I should answer the door wearing a shirt that didn't say "World's Okayest Husband."

I opened it to find Ted.

He was tall.

Like... refrigerator-delivery-man tall. Built like someone who had opinions about protein powder. Broad shoulders, shaved head, skin that looked like it had never known carbs. And quiet--eerily quiet. He gave a small nod, a brief "hey," and stepped inside with the kind of calm you don't trust from men who could bench press your car.

"Thanks for coming," Stacey said, all business in a tank top and yoga pants that were doing zero favors for my anxiety.

Ted just nodded again. He hadn't blinked yet. I wasn't convinced he could.

"This is my husband," Stacey said, gesturing to me like I was a decorative end table. "He's running the camera."

Ted gave me a polite once-over. Not dismissive. Just... assessing.

I gave him a quick nod in return, fighting the urge to say something deeply uncool like "Big fan of your work" or "Nice... uh... arms."

We sat around the kitchen island while Stacey laid it all out. "It'll be POV style--no face. You'll lie on the bed, I'll do my thing, the camera will stay above the waist. No dialogue from you. Just follow the cues and let me work."

Ted finally spoke. "Cool."

His voice was deeper than I expected. Calm. Almost soothing in a weirdly unnerving way.

"We film. We tip. We thank you for your services," Stacey added with a playful smile. "You're like Uber, but for dick."

Ted smiled, barely.

I sipped my coffee and stared at the floor, wondering when exactly my life had turned into a sex-themed Shark Tank pitch.

"Any questions?" Stacey asked.

Ted shook his head.

"Great," she said, standing up. "Let's get set up. This'll be quick."

And just like that, we were prepping to film my wife blowing another man.

Well. Sort of.

Kind of.

Professionally.

Pornographically.

Emotionally?

... I didn't have time to figure it out.

Because Ted was already taking off his pants.

The room was warm. Too warm.

That could've been the lighting setup, or the stress sweat, or the fact that I was about to film a muscular stranger's cock being expertly handled by my wife.

The bed was made. Camera rolling. Tripod locked. Ted lay back like this was just another gig, legs spread, thighs the size of my torso, his dick already thick and resting against his stomach like it was auditioning for a separate billing.

Stacey, in a sheer white negligee and nothing else, knelt between his legs, eyes on the camera.

Then she turned it on--not the camera. Herself.

She looked up at the lens with a slow, indulgent smile. "You watching, baby?"

My breath caught.

She wasn't talking to Ted.

She wasn't talking to me.

She was talking to the viewer--and for the first time... the viewer was a husband.

Not me, specifically.

But someone very much like me.

"Poor thing," she cooed. "I bet you thought I was yours. All those years, all that effort. And now look what I'm doing."

She kissed the base of Ted's cock, licking slowly up the shaft, deliberately not looking at him.

All eyes on the camera.

On the husband.

"I told you I needed more," she purred. "You thought I was joking. But I need to feel something... something real."

Her lips parted and she took just the head into her mouth. The wet sound was immediate, obscene. She moaned softly around it, then pulled off with a pop.

"You wouldn't last ten seconds with this," she whispered. "You'd come before I even touched it."

My knees locked. I gripped the side of the tripod harder than necessary, trying to stay steady.

She licked up the underside again, slow, wet, then took more--halfway down, her hand twisting at the base, her tongue working as if she'd trained for this exact moment since the womb.

"This is what I deserve," she said breathily, her voice a delicious blend of cruelty and lust. "A man who fills my mouth. Fills me up."

She slurped again, this time all the way down until her nose met Ted's abs. He groaned--barely audible--but Stacey ignored him.

All her energy stayed locked on the camera.

"Are you stroking for me, baby?" she asked softly. "Or are you just sitting there, watching Mommy do what you couldn't?"

That was the moment I realized I was hard. Painfully hard.

And leaking.

She pulled off again, a string of saliva stretching from her lips to Ted's cock, her mouth glossy, eyes shining.

"I want you to watch," she whispered. "Watch me take what I need."

She dove back in, faster now, sloppier, two hands twisting and stroking as her mouth worked the head. Moaning. Gagging a little. Loving it.

It was the dirtiest thing I'd ever seen.

And I was the one holding the fucking camera.

"Cut," Stacey said softly, her voice hoarse, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like she'd just run laps in a sauna.

I stopped recording with trembling fingers, still in a light daze, unsure if I'd just filmed porn... or a very elegant psychological attack on my masculinity.

Ted, for his part, sat up casually and adjusted his clothes like he'd just finished a crossword. No fanfare. No smugness. Just zip, nod, "Thanks," and out the door.

I stood there by the bed, arms loose, camera cooling in my hands, my cock still straining in my pants like it hadn't gotten the memo that the scene was over.

Stacey flopped onto the bed on her back, arm flung across her eyes.

"Well," she breathed, "that... was successful."

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

Every second of the last twenty minutes was still playing on a loop in my head--the slurping, the dominance, the way she looked at the camera. Not at Ted. Not even at me. But at that imaginary husband on the other side of the lens.

And it got to me.

I sat on the edge of the bed, camera in my lap like a relic from a forgotten religion. Stacey peeked out from under her arm and gave me a lazy smile.

"You okay?"

"I don't know," I said truthfully.

She reached over and rubbed my thigh gently, grounding me with just that small, familiar touch. "You looked like you were about to faint," she said, teasing but soft.

"I almost came in my pants," I muttered.

She laughed, low and slow. "That good, huh?"

I nodded. Then paused. "That was... different. The way you talked. Like, the cuck stuff."

She sat up a little. "Too much?"

"No. Just... unexpected. And really fucking hot."

We sat in silence for a while. Not uncomfortable, but charged. Like the air hadn't quite settled yet.

I glanced at her. "You ever think... maybe we're in deeper than we thought?"

She smiled again. "Honey, we haven't even started sinking."

----------

We were back in our natural habitat: the couch, her in one of my old T-shirts and nothing else, me in boxers and mild denial.

Stacey scrolled through her dashboard with glee, one hand holding a coffee mug that said "#1 StepMom" in ironically threatening Comic Sans.

"Fifteen thousand views," she said, grinning. "Almost two hundred comments. Tips out the ass. I could literally buy a small used car with what came in this week."

"Or a larger ring light," I offered helpfully.

She ignored me, which felt fair.

Then she started reading.

"'That was the best blowjob I've ever seen.' Okay, I like that guy. 'She needs to be on top next time, bouncing on something real.' Hm. Less poetic, but enthusiastic. Oh, here's a popular one--'Get her fucked. We need to see that pussy get used.'"

I shifted in my seat. "They really skip the foreplay, huh?"

She nodded, swiping again. "It's pretty unanimous. They want to see penetration."

I looked at her. She was calm. Too calm. Her legs were folded under her like this was just a conversation about fabric softener options.

"And?" I asked carefully.

She shrugged. "I want to try it."

Silence.

I blinked. "You want to film yourself... getting fucked?"

She gave me a long look. Not cold. Not apologetic. Just... honest.

"I want to perform it," she clarified. "It's a scene. A role. A character. I want to do it as a POV cuckold video. I won't even look at Ted. I'll talk to the camera the whole time--like I'm talking to a viewer. A husband. A pathetic little man who let his wife get taken."

My cock stirred at the phrase let his wife get taken and I hated myself a little for it.

"It's not about cheating," she said, reaching over and resting her hand on my thigh. "It's not about feelings. It's about the performance. The power. The kink."

I stared at her.

I was hard.

She noticed.

"You don't have to say yes," she added softly. "But I think it'll be amazing. For the page. For me. And... maybe even for you."

I swallowed. "And you'd still be talking to the camera?"

She nodded. "The whole time."

"You'd say... those things. To the viewer."

"I'd say them to you, if you want," she said. "Or not. Whatever makes it easier."

I sat in silence for a long time.

My brain was doing algebra with pornographic variables.

Finally, I exhaled and said, "You're really good at this."

She smiled. "That's not a no."

I nodded slowly.

"No," I said. "It's not."

The bedroom looked like the staging area for an erotic exorcism.

Clean white sheets, soft gold lighting, fresh towels folded neatly in the corner like a hotel trying very hard not to be judged. Stacey moved around the room with methodical confidence, adjusting pillows, testing light angles, humming to herself like this was just another Tuesday errand.

She held up two options--black lace one-piece or red crotchless set--and looked at me with mock seriousness.

"Which says 'I'm a devoted wife who's about to ruin her marriage for ratings' more?"

I coughed. "Definitely the red. But the black has emotional range."

She nodded solemnly and tossed the red onto the bed. "Red it is. I'll save emotional range for when I do my dramatic monologue video."

I watched her check her phone again, tapping notes into her script. Yes--my wife had actually scripted the dialogue she wanted to say while getting fucked by another man. And somehow, the most shocking thing about that sentence was how good the script was.

Lines like:

"You never could make me cum like this, could you?"

"This is what happens when you settle for average, baby."

"Watch. Don't look away. This is how it's supposed to feel."

It wasn't even the act that shook me anymore--it was the words. The way she could slip into that persona so effortlessly, so convincingly. Like it wasn't just her body being shared, but a power she'd only just discovered she could wield.

Ted arrived fifteen minutes early.

Of course he did.

He walked in carrying nothing--no gym bag, no prep kit, no nerves--and gave a small nod when Stacey greeted him. I offered a "hey" that probably came out a little too high-pitched. He just nodded back, already moving toward the bedroom like this was his third appointment of the day.

We explained the plan. POV angle. Camera focused on Stacey. Ted would stay silent, his face off-screen, body only. She'd talk to the lens--dominate the lens. Nothing else.

Ted said, "Cool."

That was it.

The room got warmer. Not hot. Not awkward. Just charged. Like a scene from a heist movie right before someone says, "Let's do this."

Stacey stood at the foot of the bed, now fully dressed in the red set, her makeup dark and sultry, her hair in loose waves that screamed mess me up on camera.

She looked at me.

"You ready?"

I swallowed.

I was many things in that moment.

Ready was... questionably one of them.

But I nodded.

And hit "Record."

"Rolling," I said quietly, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

Stacey looked into the camera like it had personally betrayed her.

She stood at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips, legs slightly parted, her red lingerie practically painted onto her curves. The lighting bathed her in soft gold and shadow, her skin glowing like it had secrets to tell.

"You know what your problem is?" she said to the lens, her voice low and dangerous. "You always thought I'd never leave you. That I'd stay loyal, stay faithful, no matter how little you gave me."

She took a step forward, the floor creaking just slightly.

"But I need more than your pathetic little cock and your even smaller ego."

I blinked hard. She was looking at the camera, but it felt like she was staring straight into my soul.

She turned and climbed onto the bed--on all fours, ass high, her thong already disappearing between her cheeks like it had run for cover.

Ted appeared behind her, face cropped out of frame, body a carved statue of purpose. He lined himself up.

Stacey looked over her shoulder--not at him. At the lens.

"At least now," she purred, "you'll get to watch someone else do it right."

And then Ted slid inside her.

She gasped, sharp and immediate. Her back arched, her fingers gripping the sheets.

"Oh fuck," she breathed. "Oh my god... that's it. That's it."

He started slow--deep, steady strokes. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room: skin on skin, breath against breath.

And Stacey moaned. For the camera.

"You feel that, baby?" she groaned, pushing her ass back against him. "That's what I need. Thick. Hard. Real."

I held the camera steady, barely. My hands were trembling, cock throbbing behind my jeans.

She started moving with him, each thrust sending ripples through her thighs, her ass jiggling in perfect sync with his pace.

"He's stretching me so good," she hissed, voice shaking now. "I'm dripping down his cock. I bet you've never made me this wet, have you?"

She looked into the lens again, mouth open, eyes wild.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? To watch Mommy get fucked by a real man? While you sit there, stroking your tiny dick, wishing it was you?"

Ted picked up the pace--slapping into her harder, faster. Her breasts bounced beneath her, her moans now uncontrolled, feral.

She didn't stop talking.

"Look at me," she growled. "You don't get to look away. You watch while he ruins me. While he fucks me deeper than you ever could."

Her voice cracked on that last word. Not in pain. In something else.

Surrender.

And that's when it shifted.

Her words slowed. Her body writhed against Ted like she needed him to keep her grounded. Her hands clawed at the sheets. Her head dropped.

"Oh god," she gasped. "I'm--fuck--I'm cumming--"

She cried out, legs shaking, hips jerking against him as he kept pounding through her orgasm. I watched her collapse into the bed, still getting fucked, still moaning.

Still in character.

"Still watching, baby?" she whispered, voice wrecked but sultry. "That's right. Stroke it. Stroke it while Mommy gets filled."

And then, with one final thrust, Ted groaned--quiet, controlled--as he came inside her.

The room was silent except for ragged breathing.

Stacey turned her head, hair sticking to her cheek, and gave the lens one final, wicked smile.

"Now that was a good boy."

Click.

I stopped recording.

My mouth was dry. My cock was leaking. My thoughts? Long gone.

And I was nowhere close to okay.

The video exported in eerie silence.

We sat side-by-side in the dimly lit living room, Stacey still glowing, barefoot in one of my T-shirts that barely covered her ass, a glass of water in one hand, the remote in the other. I was stiff--everywhere--and not just because of the erection that had been with me since the first thrust.

"Ready?" she asked.

No.

I nodded anyway.

She hit play.

From the very first line--"You always thought I'd never leave you"--my breath caught. Watching it live was one thing. Watching it on playback was something else entirely. It wasn't just porn. It was theater. Seduction. Psychological warfare, erotica edition.

And Stacey? She was perfect.

Every glare to the camera, every moan, every filthy line that landed like a velvet whip--it all worked. It worked so well, I barely realized I was gripping the couch cushion with one hand and palming myself with the other.

By the time she whispered, "Now that was a good boy," the credits may as well have rolled over my funeral.

She turned to me slowly.

"Well?"

My jaw moved before my brain did. "That was..."

"Too much?" she asked gently.

"Too good."

She blinked, surprised. "You liked it?"

"I don't know what I felt," I said honestly. "Turned on. Uncomfortable. Jealous. Proud. Really fucking horny. A little scared of you."

She smiled and set her water down. "That's the exact vibe I was going for."

Then, without another word, she climbed onto my lap.

She straddled me with practiced ease, the heat of her bare thighs igniting every last nerve I had left.

"I love you," she whispered, kissing the side of my neck. "And I belong to you."

Her hips ground into mine slowly, her body melting into mine like it hadn't just belonged to another man an hour ago--but always belonged here.

I looked up at her, flushed and breathless. "You sure?"

She grabbed my hands and guided them to her ass.

"I filmed the performance," she said, "but you get the encore."

----------

The video passed 100,000 views sometime before lunch.

I know this because I walked into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from my eyes, and found Stacey pacing in front of the island with her laptop in one hand and a protein bar in the other--wearing nothing but a robe and raw, unfiltered adrenaline.

"I've gone viral," she said, not looking up.

"You mean in the good way?" I asked.

She turned the screen toward me. Subscriber count climbing by the second. Comment count exploding. Tips like a jackpot machine stuck on payout.

I blinked. "Well, damn."

She grinned, biting into the bar. "I have three custom video requests in my DMs, someone wants to buy my bathwater, and there's a guy in Sweden who offered me €200 to just read a grocery list topless."

"Did you counter with laundry detergent commercials?"

She ignored me.

Instead, she spun around and started listing off content ideas:

"Okay, so I'm thinking we build a full series around the cuck roleplay. Each one escalating. Maybe I bring in a 'bull audition' storyline, or a strap-on reversal, or a callback to that JOI series but with--get this--me riding someone and narrating the stroke count to the camera. Oh, and I want to order a new mic and maybe branded panties for the merch tier."

I stood there, half-awake, vaguely aroused, and deeply overwhelmed.

She was... radiant. Possessed. Buzzing with purpose.

And I was proud of her.

Terrified, but proud.

"This is insane," I muttered, scrolling through the comments.

"That's how you fuck a woman."

"Cuckhub royalty."

"I can't believe this is real. She's incredible."

"Imagine being the guy holding the camera. I'd die."

That one made me pause.

Because that was me.

And I hadn't died.

Not yet.

But something inside me definitely shifted.

I looked over at Stacey--flushed, glowing, pacing barefoot across the tile like a queen high on her own sexual empire--and realized the truth:

She didn't just enjoy this.

She was thriving in it.

And I wasn't sure where that left me.

It was 1:42 a. m.

The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old floorboards settling, as if even the house was tiptoeing around what I was about to do.

I sat on the edge of the couch in the dark, laptop glowing in front of me like a shrine I wasn't sure I should be praying at.

Stacey's page was still open. The video--"Mommy Gets Fucked (And You Watch Like a Good Little Cuck)"--was front and center.

The thumbnail alone could've ended nations.

I hovered over the play button for a long second.

Then I clicked.

She filled the screen instantly: red lace, soft lighting, eyes sharp enough to slit your throat and sweet-talk you into apologizing for bleeding on the carpet.

The voice. The taunts. The way she didn't even look at Ted while he fucked her--it was all aimed at the camera. At me. Or someone like me. Or maybe just me, full stop.

My cock throbbed instantly. I slipped a hand under the waistband of my shorts, already half-hard just from the opening line: "You always thought I'd never leave you."

I stroked slowly. She moaned. She smirked. She came.

So did I.

Hard.

Sticky. Guttural. My legs shaking a little from how fast it hit me.

I sat there panting for a long minute, the echo of her voice still in my ears, her words still stinging in the most delicious, horrible way.

And then came the drop.

The after.

The silence.

I stared at the laptop screen, now paused on her satisfied, wicked little smile.

And I thought:

Was this still about us?

Or was this just me... holding the camera while she became someone else's fantasy?

The worst part?

I didn't hate the idea.

I just didn't know what it meant.

"So, I've got Ted coming by Wednesday and Friday this week," she said over toast, as casually as if she were mentioning laundry pickup.

I blinked.

"Both days?"

She nodded, biting into her toast. "Wednesday for another POV blowjob--requested by like six different top tippers--and Friday for a longer cuck video. Something more cinematic. I want to try a new angle with the mirror."

I paused, mug halfway to my mouth. "You've got... a production schedule now?"

"Yup," she said, scrolling through her calendar on her phone. "Also thinking of doing a 'Mommy's Morning Routine' vlog that starts with me waking up with cum on my chest and ends with me making eggs. You think people would pay for that?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

It wasn't the idea that stunned me.

It was the tone.

She wasn't asking anymore.

Not for permission.

Just camera angles.

And somewhere in my chest, that weird ache bloomed again--part pride, part something sharp I couldn't name.

"I feel like..." I started, then hesitated. "I don't know. I feel like maybe I've become more crew than husband."

Stacey looked up from her phone, surprised. "Crew? Babe. No. You're essential. You're, like... the director. The co-creator. My number one stroke coach."

I chuckled despite myself. "You say that like it's on my resume."

"It should be."

She leaned over, kissed my cheek, and grinned. "Besides, it's just for now. The next couple of weeks are gonna be big. The content's working. I'm in the zone. We ride this wave and then--bam--stabilize."

I nodded, but it felt automatic.

She turned back to her phone, already drafting a caption for a teaser post.

And just like that, the moment slipped away.

We'd shot scenes before.

But this one felt different from the moment she walked into the bedroom.

She wore black thigh-highs and a see-through mesh body stocking that turned her into a living fantasy. Her hair was up, her lipstick a sharp, dangerous red. She didn't look at me when she walked past. She looked through me--already in character, already wet.

Ted was waiting.

Silent. Shirtless. Hard.

I adjusted the camera. Checked the mic.

Stacey crawled onto the bed without a word.

And then she looked into the lens.

"Recording," I said.

She smiled slowly.

"You really let this happen," she said to the camera.

Her voice was different. Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just... disappointed.

"You had so many chances to stop it. So many moments where you could've said 'no.' But you didn't."

She spread her knees wider as Ted moved behind her, positioning himself.

"Now look at me."

Ted entered her in one smooth thrust.

Stacey gasped.

Her eyes never left the camera.

"Look what you gave away."

He started moving--slow, deliberate strokes that made her body rock forward with every thrust. Her hands clawed at the sheets.

"You're not even mad," she panted. "You like it. Don't you? Watching me take someone bigger. Stronger. Someone who fucks me like I'm not your wife."

I stood behind the camera, cock straining in my jeans, my breath coming faster with hers.

"Say it," she moaned. "Say my name."

She was speaking to the lens--but now her voice cracked.

"Say it, baby," she groaned again. "Say my fucking name while he ruins me."

I was shaking.

Then she said it.

My name.

Low.

Real.

Not for the fantasy.

For me.

"Baby..." she gasped. "You should've stopped me."

Ted slammed into her harder now. She yelped, her body jolting forward, her moans raw and ragged.

"But now you can't," she said, voice high, breathless. "Now I'm his. For the video. For them. For you."

Her body trembled.

She screamed--legs shaking, eyes rolling back--as she came violently on his cock.

And through it all, she looked straight into the camera.

Straight into me.

I came in my pants without touching myself.

Just watching.

Just filming.

Just hers.

Forever.

----------

"Look what your wife did," Stacey said, sliding her phone across the table like she'd just closed a hostile takeover of the porn industry.

The screen lit up: 100,017 subscribers.

I blinked. "Holy shit."

She was grinning like a woman who had just won a game show, burned the studio down, and sold the ashes for profit.

"I'm going to do a special," she said, spinning the phone in slow victory circles. "A thank-you scene. High production. Filthy. A real treat."

I raised an eyebrow. "How filthy are we talking?"

She reached into her bra and pulled out a folded sticky note, like some demented erotic treasure map.

I unfolded it.

It read:

Cowgirl ride start

Standing doggy

Anal play tease

Facial finish

Talk to him (use his name)

Call him good boy after facial

Post-cum smile + wink

My cock stirred somewhere around "anal play tease," and fully committed treason by "call him good boy after facial."

I looked up. "This is..."

"Ambitious?" she offered sweetly.

"Pornographically tactical."

She leaned back, stretching, tits testing the limits of her tank top. "You know what people say when they hit 100k on YouTube? They thank their viewers and do a Q&A. You know what I'm going to do?"

"Offer a guided tour of your cervix?"

"Exactly."

She stood and walked behind me, arms wrapping around my shoulders, lips brushing my ear. "They want more. They want rougher. Filthier. Realer. And I want to give it to them."

I turned to look at her. "You're not worried it's... too far?"

She paused, then shook her head. "No. Because I'll still be looking into the camera. Still talking to you. It's just a show."

I stared down at the list again.

It didn't feel like just a show.

It felt like the next level.

And I had no idea what waited on the other side.

But I didn't stop her.

Because some part of me wanted to find out.

The bedroom looked like it had been prepped by a horny wedding planner.

New white sheets. Candles in safe but suggestively placed spots. A mirror angled at the foot of the bed for an alternate POV. A black lace robe draped on a hanger like it was waiting to be sinned in.

I was adjusting the tripod when Stacey walked in, holding a bottle of lube and a fresh battery pack like a very casual pervert logistics manager.

"You really thought this through," I said.

"Milestone content," she replied, all business. "Gotta make it count."

She handed me a second camera. "Backup angle. Just in case."

"Of?"

"Excessive cum, unscheduled gagging, spontaneous anal."

I blinked.

She smiled sweetly.

Then she pulled out a different sheet--the "outline" I'd seen earlier, now heavily annotated with scribbles and arrows.

"I might go off-script," she said, not quite meeting my eyes.

I froze mid-tripod tighten. "Off-script?"

"Just if the vibe's right. You know. Let it flow. Maybe some real talk, if it feels good."

"Real talk like...?"

She shrugged. "Like, what I want. What I feel. Stuff I can't pre-write."

My mouth was suddenly dry. "And you'll still be... addressing the camera?"

"Yes."

"But this time... you might mean it."

She looked at me. "Maybe."

There was a beat of silence.

And then the doorbell rang.

Ted.

Stacey didn't flinch. Just turned, robe swishing, tits barely caged, and walked down the hallway with the calm of someone accepting an award.

I heard the door open. A low murmur. A footstep-heavy return.

Ted entered the bedroom like he always did--quiet, composed, all meat and minimal manners.

He nodded to me. "Hey."

"Hey," I replied, my voice a little thinner than usual.

Stacey reappeared in full costume: black lace, thigh-highs, glossy red lips that seemed to signal destruction imminent.

She walked to the bed, slow and deliberate.

Then looked at me.

"You ready, Director?"

I swallowed.

More than ready.

More than terrified.

I hit record.

The camera's red light blinked on.

And so did she.

Stacey stood at the foot of the bed in black lace and boots, hips cocked, lips parted in a sly, knowing grin. She looked into the lens like it owed her money.

"Happy hundred thousand, babies," she purred, voice dipped in seduction. "And to celebrate? I'm going to show you just how far I'll go... for you."

She turned and climbed onto the bed, straddling Ted like she'd done it a thousand times--which, by now, wasn't far off. His cock stood thick and ready, and she reached down, wrapping her hand around it with a practiced flourish that made my knees weak just holding the camera.

She rubbed the tip against her folds--slow, teasing--and let out a breathy sigh.

"Ohh, you feel that?" she said, looking into the camera. "That's a real cock. Big, hard... the kind that ruins your pussy for anyone else."

She sank down onto it in one smooth, sinful motion.

Her mouth fell open, her eyes fluttered, and the sound that came out of her was a moan from somewhere deep in her spine.

"Fuck yes..."

She rode him slow at first--rocking her hips in small, practiced circles--her breasts bouncing beneath the sheer fabric, her moans climbing by the second.

Ted's hands found her ass, squeezing hard as she picked up speed. Her eyes snapped back to the camera.

"Think you could do this to me?" she gasped. "Think your little dick could fill me like this?"

She bounced harder, riding Ted like she was angry at gravity.

"You watch, baby," she hissed. "You watch while I fuck him. This is what you get. This is what you deserve."

Then she leaned forward--hands on Ted's chest, legs shaking--and whispered something I almost didn't catch.

"God, he feels so good..."

It wasn't a line.

It wasn't to the camera.

It was real.

My hand tightened around the tripod.

Stacey moaned louder, grinding hard as Ted began thrusting up into her, meeting her pace, matching her hunger. She was panting now--sweaty, glistening, untamed.

She slid off him suddenly, dropped to her knees between his legs.

Looked straight into the camera.

"This is what you really came to see, isn't it?"

She grabbed his cock, still slick from her, and started stroking fast. She spit on it--messy, loud--and shoved it in her mouth.

Ted groaned, head tipping back.

And Stacey?

She performed.

Eyes on the lens. Moaning around his length. Stroking his shaft with both hands while her head bobbed wildly, drool cascading from her lips to her chest.

She pulled back with a gasp. "You watching, baby?" she said, her voice hoarse, wet, filthy. "Your wife's on her knees. Face full of cock. And you're just standing there... jerking your useless little dick behind the camera."

Then, suddenly, she turned her head and looked right at me.

At me.

"Say it," she begged. "Say my name."

I couldn't breathe.

"Say it while I get covered. While he finishes on the face you kiss goodnight."

Ted grunted. His hips tensed. Stacey opened wide, tongue out, eyes locked on mine.

"Do it," she whispered. "Give me my reward."

He came.

Thick ropes. Across her cheeks. Her lips. Her tongue.

She took it all.

Smiled.

Turned to the lens.

And purred, "Thank you, baby. That was the best gift ever."

The lights were off, but neither of us moved.

We sat on the edge of the bed, Stacey freshly showered, robe tied loosely, her hair still damp. I was in boxers, legs weak, camera battery long dead.

We hadn't spoken since the last frame.

I watched her breathe.

Finally, she said, "That was the best scene yet."

I nodded slowly. "It was."

She looked over. "You okay?"

I tried to answer.

But the truth didn't fit neatly into a sentence.

"I came so hard I almost blacked out," I said.

She laughed softly. "Same."

"But..." I started. "I also felt like I wasn't your husband. Like I was... I don't know. Owned."

Her smile faded a little--not in fear, but something softer. Thoughtful.

"You kind of were," she said. "In that moment. But not because you're less. Because you let me be more."

I exhaled.

She reached for my hand. "I've never felt this alive. Not just sexually. Like... me. Fully."

I squeezed her hand. "I don't think I expected to like it this much."

She turned toward me, straddled my lap, her eyes locked on mine. "Then don't fight it. We've already crossed the line."

I swallowed.

"What happens now?"

She smiled.

"We go further."