His POV

Andy just sat there for a moment — her warm, slick thighs draped over his, his cock half-hard and pinned under her weight — staring at her like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

On the TV, that old photo lingered: Sandra in her pastel saree, gold studs in her ears, hair pulled back so tight it hid every wild thought she’d ever had. Back then she’d giggled if he touched her ass in public. Blushed if he slipped his hand under her blouse after dinner. Said “oh god” like it was a prayer when he came too soon in the dark.

He remembered that version of her — the one who read love poems and recommended good restaurants, the one who had opinions on scented candles and thought a single drop of cum on her chin was unsanitary. The girl who used to ask him to close the blinds before he kissed her neck.

He dragged his eyes back to the couch — to the real Sandra now.

The monster he’d made.

Her hair was a matted black halo, stuck to her face in streaks of sweat and drying cum. The CUMSLUT choker cut into her throat like a crown — now smudged with his load in the grooves of the leather. Her tits were smeared with faint, tacky trails that caught the flicker from the TV. Her thighs still glistened — parted wide, the raw pink of her pussy glistening where his last mess had leaked down and half-dried between them. Her lips were parted, wet and swollen from all the times she’d held him down her throat.

And she was grinning.

Like she loved this version of herself even more than he did.

Andy’s mind spun through every little milestone he’d built into her:

How the shy wife who once flinched at porn clips now studied them like homework.

How the girl who whispered “I’m not like those sluts” now called herself his personal bukkake trophy.

How the tongue that used to stumble through polite thank-yous at family dinners now opened wide for his load, gargled it, spit it back into a glass just so she could taste it twice.

He thought about how all those commands had changed her - her hair, once pinned up prim and black, was now wild shiny black with streaks of white — a slut’s crown, tangled and streaked with sweat and drying cum. Her skin, once hidden and pale, now glowed soft and warm, fed by every load she licked up like her private beauty serum. Her breasts, once tucked into prim blouses, were softer, fuller now — pressed together like napkins for every messy spurt he marked her with. Her mouth, once so polite and careful, was now stretched wide — lips raw, parted, the perfect sloppy hole for his cock and every filthy word she’d learned to moan. Her makeup, once just shy gloss and powder, now smeared red and black streaks down her cheeks like a porn star’s crown painted in his cum. Her clothes, once modest cotton and neat sarees, replaced by sheer black lace that hugged the curves she used to hide — now displayed so he could ruin them on command. And her mind — that sweet, shy wife who once flinched at porn — was now the same girl who studied it, recreated it, and knelt for him with a wineglass ready for his next load.

Sandra looked down at herself, smirked, and dragged her fingers through a crusting line near her belly. Licked it off like she was sampling a wine she’d aged to perfection.

That was what she was now:

A filthy, shining masterpiece.

Not some mindless whore, but a monster who wanted it — who craved it — who’d begged him to fill her like a glass he’d never let run empty.

Andy’s cock throbbed under her slick thighs, helpless all over again. He didn’t even fight it.

He took in one last side-by-side:

In the TV glow — the sweet, innocent girl with the shy smile.

In his lap — the dripping, glowing cum-dump he’d trained better than any folder on his laptop.

She saw him staring, that half-shy, half-evil grin breaking wide across her face.

She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear — warm, sticky, perfect.

“You like what you made, baby?” she purred.

Her voice was all wreckage and pride.

He let out a low laugh — half-broken, half-possessed.

“Fuck yeah… I love what I made.”he rasped.