She has inner turmoil

I can’t believe this is me.

My hands—my married, manicured hands—are wrapped tight around the thickest, longest cock I’ve ever imagined, stroking it slow and deliberate while I stand here in my daughter’s fiancé’s living room, topless. My enormous FF-cup breasts—heavy, perfectly round implants my husband paid for just to fulfill his own fantasy—are completely exposed, bouncing slightly with every pump of my arms. My nipples are aching, so hard they hurt, brushing against the hard ridges of his abs whenever I lean in closer.

I’m saying things I never thought I’d say in my life.

Things like “You’ll never get to touch these big married tits, baby… you just have to stare while I work this giant black cock” and “My husband’s little four inches never made my hands feel this full… never made me this wet just from holding it.”

I’m horrified at myself. Stunned. And yet I can’t stop the words, can’t stop my hands, can’t cover myself back up.

I keep telling myself this is about being a good mother—protecting my daughter from the pain of infidelity, helping Dunk manage his “condition” so he stays faithful to her. That’s why I came here. That’s why I pulled my crop top off, why I let him see the body I’ve only ever shown my husband, why I’m teasing him with filthy talk and strict no-touching rules.

I’m trying to be a good wife, a good person—naive, trusting, submissive like I’ve always been. The woman who got huge fake tits because it made her husband happy. The mom who would do anything to keep her little girl safe and loved.

But deep down… I’m also getting off on this.

Every throb of that impossible sixteen-inch cock in my grip, every **** groan I pull from him when I deny his touch, every hungry sweep of his eyes over my bare breasts… it’s lighting me up in ways I didn’t know were possible. I swore size never mattered to me. My husband was enough—safe, gentle, familiar.

But now, feeling this monstrous thing pulse and leak because of me, because of my body and my words… I finally understand the obsession. And the guilt twists like a knife because I’m jealous—actually jealous—of my own daughter.

She gets this. She gets to marry this gorgeous, towering twenty-one-year-old Black man with a cock that could ruin anyone for anything less. She’ll get all of his intensity, his hunger, his sheer size—one day, every day.

And I’m standing here at thirty-six, faithful my entire life, still in my ripped light-blue jeans and red stilettos, topless and trembling, helping him stay loyal to her… while a shameful, secret part of me aches with envy and need.

I hate that I feel it.

I hate that my thong is soaked, that my thighs keep pressing together without meaning to, that I’m breathing harder every time he groans my name.

I’m torn in half—between the devoted wife and mother I’ve always prided myself on being… and the woman who’s just discovered how starved she’s been, how alive she feels with her hands around something she was never supposed to touch.

And right now, with my jeans still on like some flimsy last barrier, my huge bare tits heaving and his cock throbbing harder because I won’t let him lay a finger on me… I don’t know which side of me is stronger.

Maybe both.

Maybe I stopped fighting it the moment I walked through his door.