Andy POV

Andy sat there, half-sprawled on the ruined couch, thighs sticky from where her legs had rubbed him raw all night. His cock twitched under her, not even soft yet — just a heavy ache that wouldn’t shut up because his brain wouldn’t shut up either.

He couldn’t stop looking at her.

The TV behind her still flickered with that old clip: sweet Sandra in a pastel saree, hair pinned so tight it made her look like a librarian who’d flinch if someone cussed too loud. That ghost of a girl who once gasped “Oh god” when he kissed her neck in public.

That girl — that version — was long gone.

In his lap sat what he’d made instead.

Her hair — once prim black, now a wild, sweat-soaked red mane, tangled and streaked with drying cum that smelled like him every time she moved. Her skin — once shyly hidden under cotton — now so soft and warm it glowed, fed by every load he’d made her swallow, like she was coating her own beauty mask from the inside out. Her tits — he’d always joked they were too hidden, wrapped tight under boring blouses — now they pressed together full and heavy, shining in the TV’s glow, catching drips like napkins that never stayed clean for long.

And her mouth. Fuck, that mouth.

He’d trained it until it was just right — a sloppy, stretched hole, lips raw and swollen, always parted, ready to catch every spurt, to gargle it, show it back to him before she swallowed with that filthy little grin. The same mouth that used to whisper polite things at family dinners now begged him to **** her out while she dripped down her neck onto the couch.

He let his eyes roam over that CUMSLUT choker digging into her throat like a trophy. Half-twisted, streaked white, the leather soaked through where she’d licked a drop from it like a prize she’d earned. He remembered when he first slipped it on her, how she’d giggled shyly — like it was a joke. Now it was a fucking badge — her monster tag.

And her mind. That sweet wife who once hid his porn folders like they’d poison her. Now she studied them. Opened them herself. Took notes. Practiced. He’d catch her late at night, one hand buried between her thighs, the other tapping through his worst clips — ten cocks, two holes, facials that left mascara rivers down some girl’s face. She used to call that disgusting. Now she called it research.

She’d done it all for him — but she’d done it for herself too. That made it perfect.

He thought about how she’d changed everything just to match the monster he’d asked her to become:

The neat hair? Now ruined.

The polite skin? Now always painted in spit and cum.

The modest mouth? Now his personal cum goblet — stretching so wide he could see her drool before she swallowed.

The shy style? Now sheer lace hugging curves she flaunted, begging to be ruined.

The taste of her? Fuck — even that was different. He’d lick her neck now and taste his own load mixed with her sweat — warm, sharp, sweet — his custom signature.

And she loved it. That was the best part.

She didn’t just take it — she wanted it, begged for it, pushed him to make it nastier. He thought about that filthy promise she’d whispered: ten men next time, three feeding her face, two in her ass, one or two in her cunt, the rest stroking around her like she was the final buffet table for every drop. His sweet wife turned into a human cum bowl that didn’t spill a single ounce unless it was dripping back down her thighs for him to see.

Andy’s pulse thudded in his neck, raw and hot. He looked down at her again — the monster he’d built, the sweet good girl turned cock-drunk, cum-hungry, perfect.

She caught his eyes — smirked that filthy, smug grin — and dragged a finger across her sticky belly, lifting a tacky swirl to her tongue like she was sampling dessert.

The TV behind her flickered back to that shy old clip: sweet Sandra, hair pinned, eyes down.

He almost laughed. That version had no idea she’d end up like this.

Andy’s cock twitched, ****. He leaned in, voice wrecked but proud.

Look what I fucking made.

And he knew: this was just the start.

Next time? He’d give her the glass overflowing.

Next time? Maybe a whole circle.

Next time? She’d never be clean again.