Being a husband is difficult

Being a husband is tough! (8)
A private investigator called and said they had obtained accounting records from a chemical company through some channels. The records
showed that the chemical company only had about a hundred employees and its main business was selling chemical reagents. However, it was completely unable
to make a profit and had been losing money for many years, but it received capital injections every year. The amount of capital injections not only covered the losses but
was also used to pay dividends. In my professional opinion, this was undoubtedly a fraudulent company, but it had been able to deceive people for almost
ten years , which was very suspicious. On the other hand, the private investigator said that they still hadn't captured anything in the last three days of the commission period, and the commission
period ended just like that. But I didn't want to give up because of this. I had finally grasped some clues and I couldn't just give up like this . After all
, I wasn't sure how long my wife would continue to appear at this chemical company, so I had to continue monitoring her myself
. According to the private investigator's previous observation records, my wife usually appeared in the conference room around 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.
I pretended to go to the bathroom during work hours and then, following the private investigator's previous method, took binoculars
to the roof of the building across the street to monitor her.
The first day of monitoring yielded nothing. My wife drew the curtains shortly after entering the conference room. Fortunately,
the expected scene unfolded the very next day. My wife entered the conference room, seemingly preparing a presentation
while working on her computer. At that moment, the white-haired man entered, walked behind her,
grabbed her, and began to make love to her. Just like in the photos taken by the private investigator, my wife's pencil skirt
was lifted up, revealing skin-colored pantyhose and black...thong? Since we met, my wife had always
said she hated the feeling of a thong—just a single strap binding her buttocks—and had never worn one. I
didn't recall her having even half a thong in her closet. Watching the white-haired man's hands
constantly fondling my wife's pantyhose-clad genitals, I could almost smell the stench of
semen Just thinking about that smell made my groin swell. When I first saw the photos taken by the private investigator
, I thought my wife might have been semi-forced into submission to the man's lewdness. But now, seeing it with my own eyes, I realized
that wasn't the case—my wife not only swayed her hips with the man's movements, responding to his rubbing between her thighs, but also
actively turned around to give him a French kiss. After a while, the man still didn't make any further moves.
Then, as more people entered the meeting room, the man sat down with them, and the meeting seemed to begin.
The curtains were completely drawn
. That evening, after work, I drove my car out of the parking lot
and . I used binoculars to monitor the exit of the underground parking lot on the other side, intending to follow my wife out of the company—whether she
walked out or took another car out of the parking lot, it would be under my control. But after waiting and waiting, it
was already past seven o'clock and she still hadn't appeared. Just as I was wondering if my wife had left before I left work,
I happened to see Amy, the mature woman who used the semen toilet in the men's restroom of the chemical company, appear. After
the mature woman with the butterfly-shaped genitals walked out of the building's main entrance, she got into a car driven by a middle-aged man around fifty years old. The driver and she were very intimate; I suspected they might be husband and wife. And judging from their affectionate manner, I believed the man seemed unaware that his wife was being used as a sex slave at the chemical company. After only a few seconds , I decided to follow them. The car drove to a villa complex in the suburbs; the man seemed to be at least a well-paid white-collar worker. After the man parked the car in his yard, and the two got out and went inside , I got out and peered into the mailbox. Judging from the recipient's name on the mail , the man's surname was probably Wang. After noting down the address, I drove to a nearby convenience store and bought an envelope and stationery . On the envelope, I wrote "To Mr. Wang" and on the stationery, I wrote, "I have witnessed your wife behaving inappropriately and crossing the line between men and women at the chemical company where you work. If you would like to know more details, please contact me by email." I then wrote my newly registered email address in the letter, sealed it, drove back, dropped the letter into his mailbox, and went home. The next day, I still used the time I was pretending to go to the bathroom at work to monitor the chemical company's conference room. On the other hand, was hesitating about whether to buy a high-powered camera lens to record evidence. In the past , I might not have hesitated to buy such expensive things, but now I was even afraid to ask a friend who played with photography equipment to borrow it— not because I was afraid of being asked what I would use it for, but because I was afraid of being asked why I used to buy expensive electronic products without batting an eye , and now I had to borrow them. Unsurprisingly, my wife was being groped again, just like yesterday. What was even more outrageous was that her underwear was the same daring style I used to express my disgust with, saying it looked "indecent" and "like a prostitute"—black stockings and extremely low-rise panties, barely covering her vulva, her mons pubis completely exposed. Strangely, her pubic hair seemed very sparse. From this distance, through the glass of the building, although the details weren't clear, it seemed that what was once thick pubic hair had been reduced to just some dark shadows on her mons pubis. Watching my wife's body being played with, I found myself experiencing a throbbing sensation in my groin, like a teenager—perhaps this was the thrill of voyeurism? In the past, I only knew how to study hard and work diligently, and I never understood why my classmates were so keen on peeping under female teachers' skirts, or even spying on women's restrooms. Now I finally understood. After returning to the company from the surveillance, I discovered that the email address I had specifically created to send letters to "Mr. Wang" had actually received a letter—it was from Mr. Wang, the husband of that married woman. The contents of the letter made me frown ; I couldn't imagine what I had just read: "Dear Sir/Madam: Thank you for your letter. Since participating in this project, my wife has already surpassed the 100-man-riding mark, and last month she reached the record of 1,000 internal ejaculations. Recently, she has been thinking about how to break through even further. I just told my wife, ' What if strangers find out that you are a public sex toilet?' My wife said, 'Anyway, so many strangers have already slept with me. Whoever wants to fuck me can fuck me.' Although I don't know who you are, I am extremely grateful to you for helping my wife overcome her insistence that 'this matter must be kept secret.' Thank you! My wife letting the new security guard fuck her. Later, through him, I will spread the news that my wife can be raped by anyone. One person tells ten, ten tell a hundred, and soon the whole community will be filled with semen in my wife's cunt. I get excited just thinking about it! I've attached a video of my wife's amazing performance. If you need it, please feel free to contact me."

Opening the attached photos and videos, it was indeed that voluptuous mature
woman with dark purple labia everted. In the first photo, she was wearing a cheap white V-neck low-cut dress, flesh-colored stockings, and white patent leather T-strap
sandals, standing on the side of an old neighborhood full of prostitutes near a chemical company. She was holding a few bills in one hand
and lifting the hem of her dress with the other, revealing a used
condom . She had a smug smile on her face, with crow's feet at the corners of her eyes.
In the other photo, she was in a bar that looked like it was abroad, full of foreigners, sucking on a black man's large penis and making a victory
sign with her hand. The attached video is blurry, possibly due to excessive compression, but it shows
a mature woman being gang-raped, one man after another for over an hour. Her vagina is so loose it can't close. She's
then posed for a photo with eight men, holding a plate containing nineteen used condoms,
each knotted and filled with their semen.
After seeing this, my mind is a mess. Because of my father's upbringing, I've always adhered to the principle of being a good
husband . As a responsible husband, I should never do anything unbecoming of a husband
. Therefore, I've always buried myself in work, avoiding invitations from former classmates and any inappropriate after-
work socializing—as far as I know, those socializing activities are utterly absurd. But my wife's
actions suggest that for her, the marriage is merely about building a shared economic foundation and ensuring our children grow up carefree.
As long as that's achieved, the idea of physical fidelity is just my old-fashioned thinking. Moreover,
judging from the actions of this mature woman and her husband, perhaps times have truly changed. Sex is merely a form of exercise;
if the husband is impotent, he can find someone else to act as a "playmate," to play with a man's genitals. Why be so serious
? He lets his wife use the toilet like a commode, which can't be considered incestuous;
it's just like satisfying one's appetite or relieving the urge to urinate.
As these thoughts swirled in my mind, I unknowingly finished work and arrived at
the men's restroom of the chemical company. Considering all this, what I did certainly didn't constitute infidelity; simply using the men's restroom was no different
from urinating. After making up my mind, I waited until the mature woman in the cleaning room next door was
being repeatedly ejaculated Finally, when there was no one else waiting in line outside, I mustered up my courage and opened the door to the cleaning room. I saw
this woman with the purple butterfly-shaped cunt lying on the floor—wearing a pencil skirt and a blue striped shirt that she wore to work. The skirt was
rolled up, revealing her cleanly shaved mons pubis and lower abdomen. On her fair and plump lower abdomen,
written in black marker, was the message: "I'm a slut who's to be fucked, you know that? Hurry up and get on me!" She wasn't wearing underwear, and her flesh-colored pantyhose were
pulled down between her legs. Not only
was her cunt, which had been repeatedly fucked, constantly leaking semen, but there were also traces of semen on her shirt, skirt, and thighs. The mature woman, who had been fucked continuously for more than an hour, had unfocused
eyes and was just smiling blankly. I took off my pants, knelt between her legs, and inserted my penis, which had been swollen since I hid in
the next room into her loose and rotten cunt, thrusting in and out again.
As I was having sex with her, I was thinking about my wife's cunt, which had been used by countless men, and imagining
that I was thrusting into her vagina, which was already filled with semen after being ejaculated inside her.
During the thrusting, perhaps because of the intense emotions, this mature woman cried out with each
thrust . I was surprised that my masculinity had returned, so
I increased the speed of my thrusts. After a while, I felt I couldn't hold back any longer and ejaculated all the semen I had accumulated
into her. Afterwards, I got up, pulled up my pants, and looked at the scene before me in a daze. I took out
my phone and took a picture of the woman, her vagina still overflowing with my semen, looking dazed from being fucked.

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Being a husband is difficult

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