Happy Wife, Happy Life: Part One
- Lisa X Lopez
- 3 days ago
- 10 min read
Want the full video version and eBook of this story? Grab a copy from the shop! You can also read this story in my collection Explicit Infidelity: Volume One in my Amazon shop.
The Daily Humiliation
Derek slumped at his disaster of a desk, a half-eaten sandwich going stale next to his keyboard, the air still thick with Carrie’s perfume from her morning kiss. Happy wife, happy life. The words hammered in his head, not a mantra but a sick joke. He used to believe it, back when Carrie’s obsession with cock-sucking was just for him, their dirty little secret. Now it was a punchline, and he was the butt of it every time she got on her knees for some other guy.
He pushed away from the desk, chair squeaking in protest, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. The spreadsheet on his monitor blurred into meaningless columns of numbers. His lunch break was ticking away, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t swallow another bite of turkey and swiss when all he could think about was what Carrie’s mouth was probably wrapped around right now.
His cock twitched in his pants, the traitorous little bastard. Derek hated that he got hard for this, hated that the thought of his wife choking on another man’s cock made his dick throb. He could see it: her fat red lips stretched wide, her hair yanked back by some asshole, her eyes watering as she swallowed cock like she was made for it. His community cocksucker. His slut. His dick jerked again at the thought.
The worst part? She was fucking great at it. Carrie sucked cock like it was her job, like she needed it to live. She’d crawl into bed and whisper every filthy detail—how this guy tasted, how thick that one was, how much cum she swallowed. She thought it turned him on. It did. Fuck him, it did. Even as it made him want to puke.
His phone buzzed on the desk, vibrating against scattered papers and a cold coffee mug. Derek glanced at the screen, saw Brody’s name, and his stomach clenched. His childhood friend. The mechanic with the tattooed arms and the easy grin. The guy who’d been crashing their Friday night hangouts for years, drinking Derek’s beer and eating Derek’s pizza, back when things had been simple.
Before Carrie decided Brody’s cock needed to be in her mouth.
Derek’s hand shook slightly as he unlocked his phone. The preview showed an image attachment, nothing else. No message, no context. Just a photo. His thumb hovered over it for a long moment, heart already hammering against his ribs, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He knew what he’d find. Part of him wanted to delete it unseen, to preserve some shred of his dignity, his sanity. But that part was small and easily drowned out by the louder, darker urge to look, to see, to confirm what he already knew was happening.
He opened the photo.
The photo filled his screen, sharp and brutal. Carrie was on her knees on the filthy garage floor, surrounded by tools and junk, but Derek didn’t see any of that. All he saw was his wife: eyes glazed, mouth stuffed full of Brody’s cock, cheeks sucked in as she tried to take every inch. Cock-drunk. His wife, the cum dumpster.
Derek’s breathing sped up. His cock was rock hard, straining against his zipper, begging for attention. He zoomed in, hating himself, but unable to stop. Carrie’s makeup was a mess, mascara streaked down her face, her blouse open so her tits were almost out, nipples poking through her bra. One hand cupped Brody’s balls, the other clung to his thigh, and her wedding ring—his ring—flashed in the dirty garage light.
Brody’s jeans were bunched at his thighs, and Derek stared at his friend’s cock, sick with jealousy. Thick, just like Carrie bragged. Veiny, shiny with her spit. Seven inches, maybe more, buried in her throat. Derek zoomed in, saw the bulge in Brody’s jeans, imagined the sloppy, wet sucking sounds—his wife’s soundtrack.
His hand went to his crotch, squeezing his hard-on through his pants. His head spun with filthy fantasies, all ending with him covered in cum and shame. He pictured barging into the garage, ripping Carrie off Brody’s cock and stuffing his own down her throat, showing her who owned her. But she wasn’t his anymore. Her mouth was public property now. Anyone could use it.
Or maybe he’d just watch. Stand in the doorway, jerking off while Brody fucked his wife’s throat, called her a cocksucker, a cumslut, all the filthy names that made her moan. Maybe he’d wait until Brody dumped a load in her mouth, then shove his own cock in, taste his friend’s cum on her tongue.
"Fuck," Derek groaned, squeezing his cock through his pants, not even close to enough. He stared at the photo. Community blowjob slut. That’s what she was now. That’s what he’d married. And he was the loser who let it happen, who jerked off to it, who couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.
His thumb moved across the screen, hovering over the delete button. He should erase it, clear it from his phone, pretend he’d never seen it. Maintain some illusion of normalcy, of a marriage that wasn’t built on his wife’s insatiable need to service every cock in a ten-mile radius.
Instead, Derek opened his secret folder, the one buried under layers of bullshit, and saved the photo. It joined the others—a whole collection of his humiliation. Proof of what a cuck he was. Jerk-off material for when Carrie was asleep, or out "running errands" with her mouth full of cock.
He deleted the photo from his main gallery but left the text open. His cock throbbed, begging to be jerked, but he couldn’t do it here, not with the door unlocked and work calls hanging over his head. He shifted in his seat, wincing, trying to think of anything except his wife’s lips wrapped around Brody’s cock.
His fingers typed before he could stop himself: "Looks like she’s enjoying her lunch more than I am."
He stared at the message. It sounded like he was in on the joke, not the punchline. But what else could he say? "Stop fucking my wife’s throat"? He wasn’t ready for that. He’d lose anyway.
Derek hit send.
He zipped up, his cock still hard, and shoved away from the desk. The rest of the day would be spreadsheets, calls, and pretending he wasn’t a joke. All he could think about was Carrie coming home, maybe finally demanding answers, maybe pretending he had any control at all.
Except he’d tried before. It always ended the same: his cock in her mouth, his balls empty, his pride gone.
His phone buzzed again. Probably Brody responding with some crude joke, some buddy-buddy bullshit about sharing and keeping it in the friend group. Derek didn’t check. He couldn’t, not right now, not when the arousal and jealousy were warring so intensely inside him that he felt like he might split apart.
Tonight, he told himself. Tonight he’d confront her. Tonight would be different.
But even as he thought it, even as he tried to summon righteous anger and wounded pride, Derek knew the truth. He’d confront her, and she’d deflect with dirty talk and explicit confessions, and he’d end up hard and desperate and ultimately giving in, because despite everything—despite the humiliation and the jealousy and the knowledge that his marriage had become a joke—he still wanted her. Still needed her.
Still loved the woman who couldn’t stop sucking everyone else’s cock.
The thought settled over him like a weight, and Derek stared at his cluttered desk, at his forgotten lunch, at the faint trace of her perfume in the air. Happy wife, happy life.
He was starting to wonder if happiness was even possible anymore.
***
Carrie arrived home just after six, the front door closing with a soft click that Derek heard from the kitchen where dinner simmered on the stove. He’d been stirring the pasta sauce obsessively for the past ten minutes, trying to work out what he’d say, how he’d approach this. But the moment she rounded the corner into the kitchen, all his carefully rehearsed words dissolved. Her lips were swollen, plumper than they’d been this morning, and her makeup was smudged at the corners—mascara faint beneath her eyes, lipstick worn away to a natural pink that meant only one thing.
She’d been sucking cock. Not long ago. Probably still had cum in her throat.
“Hey, baby,” Carrie said, her voice slightly hoarse in that telltale way that meant her throat had been thoroughly used. She crossed the kitchen with her characteristic sway, hips rolling, auburn waves bouncing around her shoulders. Her blouse was buttoned wrong, Derek noticed. Off by one, leaving it slightly askew. “Something smells good.”
She pressed up against him before he could move, her tits and hips grinding into him, and kissed him. Derek’s hands grabbed her waist, even though he wanted to shove her off. Her lips were swollen, her tongue salty in his mouth. Cum. He tasted cum. She’d tried to rinse, but he could still taste it. Someone else’s cum.
His cock stirred despite himself. Or maybe because of himself. Derek couldn’t tell anymore.
Carrie pulled back, grinning with those fucked-out eyes, pupils blown wide. Her nipples poked through her blouse, hard and obvious. No bra. She’d left with one. She’d taken it off for someone else.
“Where were you really today?” The question came out rougher than he’d intended, but Derek forced himself to hold her gaze, to not look away, to demand an answer for once in their fucked-up marriage.
Carrie’s smile widened. She didn’t even pretend to be caught off guard. “Just helping Brody with some… oral negotiations,” she said, her voice dropping to that breathy whisper she used when she wanted to drive him crazy. Her hand slid up his chest, fingernails scratching lightly through his shirt. “He needed some relief, you know how stressed he gets.”
Derek’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”
"His cock is so thick, baby," Carrie cut him off, grinding her thigh into his crotch. "I could barely get my lips around it. Had to really open up, you know? He yanked my hair and fucked my throat until I was gagging. Just how I like it."
“Carrie—” Derek started, but his voice cracked. His cock was hardening rapidly now, pressing against his zipper, and she could feel it, he knew she could, because her smile turned predatory.
"You want the details, don’t you?" She grabbed his cock through his pants, squeezing. "Want to know how he tasted? How he moaned when I sucked his balls? How much cum he dumped down my throat? He called me a cocksucker, Derek. A cum-hungry slut. And it made me drip."
Derek’s breath came in gasps. He should stop her, shove her away, say something that mattered. "You can’t just keep sucking off my friends," he said, but it sounded pathetic, even to him.
Carrie’s hand slid into his pants, grabbing his cock, making his hips jerk. "Why not?" she said, stroking him. "You knew I was a slut when you married me. You knew I needed cock. And you’re hard as a rock, so don’t pretend you don’t love having the best cocksucker in town for a wife."
She wasn’t wrong. Derek’s head filled with images—Carrie on her knees in Brody’s garage, in the back seat of some stranger’s car, bent over a desk, always with a cock in her mouth, always swallowing. He saw the photo again, her eyes on the camera, Brody’s cock down her throat. He thought of all the other cocks, all the other men, all the times he pretended not to care.
"I can still taste him," Carrie whispered, jerking him faster. "Want to taste him too? Want to lick my mouth and know Brody’s cum was there an hour ago?"
Derek snapped. He saw it all—the time he caught Carrie with a coworker, the morning she was on her knees for the cable guy, all the nights she came home with that used-up look and sucked his cock like she needed just one more to finish her day. Every memory made him harder, made him hate himself more.
He yanked his belt open, pants down, and Carrie dropped to her knees like it was her natural place. Her eyes went wide with hunger, licking her lips—those swollen, cum-soaked lips that had been on who knows how many cocks today.
“That’s it,” she purred, reaching for him. “Let me—”
But the second her fingers wrapped around his cock, the second he saw his wife on her knees—where she belonged, where she’d been for Brody, for every other guy—he exploded. He hadn’t even gotten his pants all the way down. He just looked at her and thought about all the cocks she’d sucked, and he lost it.
Cum shot out of him in thick streams, splattering Carrie’s chin and dripping onto her blouse. She jerked back, surprised, then laughed—a real, amused laugh that cut deeper than any insult.
"Oh, baby," Carrie said, wiping his cum off her chin and licking it from her fingers, tasting him just like she tasted Brody, just like she tasted every guy. "That was fast. Even for you."
Derek just stood there, cock still half-hard, pants around his thighs, staring at his wife while shame washed over him. Ten seconds. Ten fucking seconds, and he’d blown it before she even got her mouth on him.
"Don’t worry," Carrie said, standing up and smearing his cum on his cheek. "There’s plenty more where that came from—for both of us." She winked. He knew what that meant. More cock for her. More humiliation for him.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, loud and insistent. Derek fumbled for it, still trying to pull his pants up with his other hand, his mind reeling from what had just happened. The screen showed a work email notification, the subject line visible even on the preview: URGENT: Meeting with Regional Manager - Tomorrow 8 AM.
Derek’s stomach dropped. His boss’s boss. The regional manager who he’d been trying to impress for months, the guy who controlled promotions and raises and his entire fucking career trajectory. An urgent meeting, first thing tomorrow morning, which could mean anything from a new project to a layoff.
“Work?” Carrie asked, leaning over his shoulder to peek at the screen, her breast pressing against his arm, the scent of sex and perfume overwhelming.
“Yeah,” Derek muttered, shoving the phone back in his pocket. His mind spun, trying to process too many things at once—the premature ejaculation, Carrie’s teasing, the photo from earlier, and now this goddamn meeting that could determine whether he even had a job next week.
Carrie kissed his cheek, her lips sticky against his skin. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said breezily, already moving toward the stairs. “I’m going to shower. Maybe you can join me in a bit? Once you’ve… recovered?”
She vanished upstairs, leaving Derek in the kitchen with his pants undone, sauce burning, and the taste of failure in his mouth. He stared at his phone, dread crawling up his spine.
Tomorrow would bring answers about his career. But tonight, he knew, would bring more of the same humiliation. Carrie would want him again, would expect him to perform, to reclaim what was his even though it had never really been his to begin with.
Derek turned off the burner and stared at the ruined sauce. Just like his marriage—burned out, useless, a mess.
Happy wife, happy life.
He was beginning to think neither of them was truly happy at all.
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