Mara had once been a good wife.
For ten years, she had played her part—folded laundry, cooked dinners, smiled at the right moments. She had performed her wifely duties with the kind of quiet resignation that other women called love.
David adored her. He was a good man, a responsible man. Predictable, steady. He worked hard, came home on time, kissed her softly.
And yet, deep in the marrow of her bones, Mara loathed him.
Not at first.
At first, it had only been boredom. A restless dissatisfaction that she couldn’t quite name. She had married young, settling into the soft, suffocating comfort of monogamy without question. But as the years passed, a hunger began to stir inside her—a craving for something darker, something raw.
And so, the fantasies began.
She didn’t know when the idea first took root. Perhaps it had been the way men stared at her when David wasn’t looking, the lingering glances that sent a thrill through her veins. Perhaps it had been the books she secretly read, the stories of women who surrendered to their most wicked desires.
The fantasy played in her mind at night, in the quiet moments when David slept beside her, oblivious.
What if?
What if she let a stranger take her? What if she let go of the polite restraints of marriage and let herself become something else—something feral, something sinful?
She resisted, at first.
Until one evening, when David left for a work trip, and the opportunity became too delicious to ignore.
She found the bar easily enough—a place where businessmen drank whiskey and let their gazes linger too long on women like her.
She wore a dress that clung indecently to her curves, painted her lips a deep, sinful red, and left her wedding ring at home.
When the man approached her, she knew it would happen.
“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.
“Yes,” she murmured. “You.”
The words thrilled her, sent heat rushing through her veins.
He understood what she was offering, and when he asked the inevitable question—”How much?”—her breath paused.
She named a price, something arbitrary, something meaningless. But when he placed the bills into her palm, something inside her clicked into place.
This is what I was meant for.
The hotel room was luxurious. He was rougher than David, hungrier. He didn’t make love to her; he took her.
And she let him.
When it was over, she dressed slowly, savoring the weight of the money in her purse. She didn’t feel dirty. She felt powerful.
She told herself it was a one-time thing.
But it wasn’t.
A week later, she found herself back at the bar, seeking out another stranger.
Then another.
Soon, she was inventing reasons to leave the house.
She learned the game quickly. Men were easy. They wanted illusions, not reality. They wanted a woman who would smile, undress, and disappear without expectations.
And Mara gave them exactly what they wanted.
She became addicted—not to the money, but to the thrill. To the way their hands roamed her body without hesitation. To the sound of their groans as they used her in ways David never dared.
The thought of David began to irritate her.
His softness. His gentleness. His pathetic predictability.
She would come home late, his trusting smile waiting for her, his voice warm as he asked, “How was your night?”
She would kiss him, her pussy lips still swollen from another man’s fuck, and whisper, “Uneventful.”
And then, one night, she realized something.
She no longer felt guilty.
Not even a little.
With every stranger’s touch, with every rough, anonymous encounter, she began to hate David more.
He had trapped her in this life. He had shackled her to a dull, lifeless marriage.
He thought he owned her.
But he didn’t.
Not anymore.
She began to push boundaries.
She stopped pretending.
She started coming home later. Stopped bothering with excuses. She would slip into bed beside David, her thighs still slick with the evidence of another man, and feel nothing as he wrapped an arm around her in his sleep.
She started leaving bruises on her skin—dark fingerprints left by men who didn’t bother to be gentle. She wanted David to see them. She wanted him to ask.
But he never did.
Because David was blind. Stupid. Weak.
Until one night, when everything changed.
It started with a fight.
David had noticed something—her absences, her growing coldness.
He asked, hesitantly, if she was unhappy.
Mara laughed. Unhappy?
No, she wasn’t unhappy. She was alive.
And then, in a moment of wicked impulse, she did something unforgivable.
She leaned in close, let her lips brush his ear, and whispered:
“Do you know where I was tonight?”
David frowned, confused.
She smiled.
“I was on my knees in a hotel room, swallowing another man’s cock.”
Silence.
His face paled. His breath hitched. He staggered back as if she had struck him.
And God, it was delicious.
She had power over him now. She had shattered his illusions.
David didn’t speak. Didn’t scream. He simply stared, broken.
And Mara?
Mara smiled.
Because for the first time in years, she had made him feel something.