Not long after my wife declared she wouldn’t let me touch her anymore, our intimate life had shifted drastically. She was seeing other men, and my closeness to her came only through a strapon I used to pleasure her in her absence. Months passed with that bittersweet arrangement.
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One afternoon, while I was at work, she called me, her voice dripping with frustration and desire. She was day off, and confessed she’d already masturbated five times. Her bull was out of town, leaving her aching for a real cock inside her. Then, unexpectedly, she told me if I could get home early, she might let me have her, claiming how desperate she was.
Without hesitation, I invented an excuse and bolted out the door, my heart pounding with anticipation. On the way home, she sent me dirty messages, telling me how unbearably horny she was and how hard she planned to make me cum. The promise ignited a fire inside me.
The moment I stepped through the door, our lips met in a heated kiss. My cock was already throbbing, leaking precum in impatience. I grabbed her hips, spun her around, and bent her over the kitchen table to take her from behind. But as I leaned in, she let out a sharp moan—her cunt had rubbed against the rounded corner of the table beneath her leggings. The sensation was electrifying.
She pushed me back, holding me at arm’s length. “Holy shit, baby,” she breathed, grinding harder against the corner. “Oh fuck, maybe I don’t need you after all.” Her fingers slid beneath her shirt, teasing her nipples as she continued rocking her hips. I reached for her ass, but she waved me away.
“Stop. You can watch, but I don’t… mmm… need you anymore.” Her voice was thick with pleasure, barely coherent. For some minutes, she moved against the table’s edge, clenching it tightly as she slammed her hand down during a powerful orgasm. Even as her moans quieted and her breath steadied, she resumed grinding.
“Fuck, that felt good,” she gasped, gazing at my leaking cock through my pants. “That has never made me feel this fucking good. Holy shit.” Then the teasing began. “How humiliating… mmm… for you,” she purred, voice strained with delight. “A kitchen table fucks your wife better than you ever could… but… mmm… this is a big piece of wood… unlike that…” She pointed at my small cock.
Feeling both aroused and crushed, I slipped my cock out and began stroking it. “That’s it. Stroke it with two fingers like the tiny dick loser you are,” she taunted. “Just know… ohhh fuck… fuck fuck fuck.” She moved her hips, lost in the pretend ecstasy of the best cock she’s ever had. “Mmm, just know I’d rather have a fucking table than that pathetic thing,” she moaned.
Watching her, my tension snapped, and I exploded, my release spilling across myself and the kitchen floor. She laughed joyfully, grinding on for a few more moments, mocking my small cock and reminding me how awful a lover I’d become. Then she came again—loud and overwhelming, her body shaking with pleasure.
Leaning on the table to catch her breath, she finally stood, a large wet spot blossoming on her gray leggings. “I guess I wasn’t desperate enough after all. You can go back to work,” she said with a smirk, heading upstairs.
I cleaned myself up, stunned and unsure of what had just transpired, then returned to work, my mind spinning from the raw humiliation and unexpected ecstasy.
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