The Story of Green Slave M

I am a submissive (M), and like many cuckolds who refuse to admit they are being cuckolded, I once told myself I was just a cuckold. I did a lot of work and experienced many setbacks. Now, my wife is slowly accepting my fetishes and we've even tried it a few times. This is her reflection after our most recent encounter; perhaps it's a form of self-healing, because this experience wasn't as wonderful as she had hoped. The "doctor" mentioned in the text is a dominant she chatted with online, someone she was once obsessed with. My pain stemmed from my extremely strong desire for control and the tearing apart of my cuckold identity. I couldn't accept this rapidly spiraling relationship, so I broke off contact after a while. My wife hasn't completely moved on either. I originally wanted to find a dominant to counterbalance him and weaken his presence. However, this time I didn't do well enough. The person I chose wasn't to my wife's liking in terms of height or looks. She thought I was just being difficult and that I was compromising myself. I thought she could accept it but didn't cut my losses in time. After the encounter ended, my wife, in a period of stress, wrote this unsent letter

and started accepting single men. Only then did I realize that the pleasure of men can be so simple and pure.

Stripped of social identities, responsibilities, and contracts, when everyone's goal is simply to seek pleasure, achieving understanding becomes incredibly easy.

My husband's casually managed Twitter account only occasionally posts revealing photos of me without showing my face, yet it has easily amassed a large following. Especially after posting a video with a single man (whom they call an "event") and revealing that this married woman is available for free, he receives a constant stream of private messages.

All sorts of men go to great lengths to flatter and fawn over him, readily using terms like "darling," "sweetheart," "baby," "goddess," and "beautiful wife." My husband seems quite happy to handle these things, diligently spending time communicating with these "candidates" after his busy work and life. To make management easier, he uniformly changes the men's nicknames to "Twitter ID, location, age, height, weight, and penis size," and changes the chat background to photos they send him. Every morning, he receives a barrage of greetings, requests for "original" photos, "screenshots" (looking at pictures of me on the screen), and "photoshoots" (photographers who can take artistic, revealing photos), but most are still concerned about when the next "event" will be. My husband seems to thoroughly enjoy this, sometimes sharing anecdotes with me and jokingly saying, "Look, this is the harem I've built for you. Whatever kind of man you need, I can provide."

Many of these men also have glamorous social identities, but on my husband's Twitter, they post photos of their lives, muscles, and genitals, happily sharing my body on the screen like a group of little boys sharing candy. Everyone has different psychological needs; some want to gain satisfaction by conquering other men's wives, others want to bring a sense of salvation to women suffering from "long-term sexual repression," but without exception, these psychological needs ultimately need to be fulfilled through me.

Occasionally, I check the comments and private messages and see how passionate men can be when they're lusting after your body. Sometimes I wonder if the "pure yet seductive," "long-legged and slim-waisted," "contrast goddess" they fantasize about is really the same person as me, a working-class person squeezing onto the subway every morning and evening rush hour, racking my brains for promotions and raises.

My first experience with a single man was partly due to you (I don't mean to blame you at all; I'm an adult, I'm not facing a knife to my throat, I've chosen my own path in life, and the current situation is still manageable). On a Friday night when I could work overtime or not, I tried to delay going home and told you about my situation. Although my phone wallpaper's annual plan said "Accompany my husband to experience a more complete and richer life," I was still unwilling to get involved with these men. My intention was to gain your sympathy and pity, and to my surprise, your attitude was not opposed. Your attitude gave me a lot of courage.

So in July, I tried to meet a man born in 1992. He had delicate features, and the QQ account he used to contact my husband was the one he always used. His personal information, real-name identification documents, and a bunch of award certificates were openly displayed on his QQ space without any defense. These details made me feel that he shouldn't be a very scheming person. Out of caution, I specifically chose to meet him during my period and made it clear beforehand that I was menstruating. This man didn't mind at all and drove several hours from Hangzhou to come. I didn't say a word throughout the entire meeting, except for stealing glances at him a few times; I didn't even dare to look up. Unlike the experienced driver I'd imagined, this man was surprisingly shy and reserved. Only my husband was relaxed and chatty at the table. This "test before the tryst" seemed quite successful. After meeting me, the man showered my husband with compliments about my figure and looks on QQ, and was incredibly eager for the "activity" a week later. He readily complied with all of my husband's requests: a medical report within seven days, condoms throughout, two rooms, ample foreplay, and service-oriented (he could stop if I felt uncomfortable). This attentive attitude gave me immense confidence in my own charm, leading to the formal date a week later. Out of a desire to avoid the situation, I chose to wear a blindfold the entire time, even wrapping two strips of fabric inside the blindfold several times to prevent it from slipping off. As my husband helped me shower, dry my hair, put on my lingerie, a robe, and an eye mask, and helped me to sit on the sofa to wait (we had previously taken a photo of me kneeling on the floor), I heard him close the door and leave. The soothing music playing from the Bluetooth speaker couldn't ease my tension. I started trembling, and then my nose started to sting, and I felt like crying. Then I heard the door open, heard them talking in hushed tones, felt footsteps approaching, and felt a pair of hands clumsily unbuttoning my robe, seemingly trembling as well. The moment they touched me, I knew it definitely wasn't my husband, but he was definitely in the room. I called for him, wanting to end this quickly. I told him, "Don't use those props anymore, don't do any foreplay, let's just do it." Hearing this, my partner carried me to the bed, touched my genitals, and found I was soaking wet. He unhooked my lingerie (needless to say, my husband had given him the clasp), and inserted himself. How can I describe that feeling? A wife's traditional physical fidelity was gone, and it had indeed been a long time since I had felt such a large, hot object entering my body. It was truly humiliating, yet also truly pleasurable. At that moment, I finally admitted that even the most exquisitely designed sex toys could not compare to a man's flesh and warmth. Being unable to see made my other senses even more acute. I could feel his excitement from the range of his movements and the rhythm of his breathing. He constantly checked on my feelings: "Does it hurt? Does it feel good?" Waves of pleasure washed over me, and I heard myself involuntarily moving, and I could hear my husband's heavy breathing beside the bed. Strangely, I didn't feel anything. After the initial confusion subsided, I became increasingly clear-headed, consciously feeling each sensation, consciously smelling the hotel shampoo on him, consciously touching the fine beads of sweat on his muscular back, consciously feeling his burning ears and face. During this process, my pleasure gradually faded, replaced by a mechanical, rubbing sensation—no discomfort, just mechanical. The urge to end it quickly returned. I could sense he was still excited, and then the woman's best act began—faking it. With my slightly exaggerated moans, he quickly ejaculated. He kissed me and went to the bathroom, presumably to throw away the condom. Perhaps dissatisfied with his performance, after discussing it with my husband, he went back to his room to rest before returning. When he came back, he was noticeably more relaxed, trying several positions. My body gradually adapted to his size, but although the pleasure was intense, I didn't experience any. In the doggy style, he ejaculated again, then we showered in our room and lay in bed chatting. Later, my husband told me that he hadn't thrown away the condom in the bathroom before; he had flushed it down the toilet and thrown the empty one in the trash, probably still wary of us. To avoid me developing a dependency or feelings due to my "unprofessional" behavior, my husband strictly stipulated a one-time arrangement. Although we continued to contact each other normally, we probably wouldn't see each other again in this lifetime.

[The End]

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The Story of Green Slave M

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