Beautiful wife Xiao Luo

The non-profit lens company I work for has a unique feature: ample and flexible rest time, designed to allow employees with varying degrees of disability to enjoy schedules tailored to their individual needs. Colleagues aren't overly enthusiastic or social, to avoid accidentally touching on sensitive topics; it's common to see colleagues each occupying a corner to rest. So I asked my wife for her old tablet and used my breaks to watch short videos and catch up on American and Korean dramas. Although my wife promised not to take on the sponsored content for that bra company, my mind kept wandering to the image of her breasts, those two white, soft mounds. One day, on a whim, I clicked on my wife's page, "Xiao Luo – Light Hair Care Diary," during my lunch break to see what products she was selling.
Although our family is financially strapped, at least we don't steal, rob, cheat, or lend money; we rely entirely on my wife's sponsored content—kitchenware, restaurant food, trendy fashion, even short family trips, and so on. Seeing my wife's smiling eyes and her pouting lips as she promoted different products in front of the camera, I suddenly felt a strange sense of irritation. Behind me were my colleagues, one after another, physically and mentally disabled, trapped in front of machine after machine, unable to escape. My wife, meanwhile, was interacting with customers remotely, not only using sweet words to promote products but also chatting and interacting gently with strangers. Looking at the sky above my wife's head, an inexplicable irritation welled up within me. I hated it, I hated myself for losing my legs. Then, my gaze fell on one of my wife's so-called friendly sharing posts. I clicked on it casually, and the page redirected to a lingerie brand's page. Although this lingerie brand had several series, it was generally focused on style. I was quickly drawn to the title of one of the short videos:
"Beautiful Wife Xiao Luo / The Little Secret to Making Husbands Enjoy It / This is How to Choose Lingerie." "Xiao Luo" is my wife's nickname, but when her nickname is combined with the words "beautiful wife" and then "enjoy it," it sounded awkwardly like an advertisement. The short film opens with my wife, wearing a tank top, sitting on my sofa and giving an introductory speech. As I listen, a pang of heartache strikes me. She has never used the bras displayed on the table to please her crippled husband, but I don't blame her for being pretentious. Rather, even if she wore the finest bra, I, the cripple, couldn't powerfully pin her down; I could only lie helplessly on the bed like a worm. After special effects editing, my wife, like a doll changing clothes, transforms her tank top into a black bra with a ding. The seemingly ordinary cups tightly encase her full breasts, but upon closer inspection, the dense embroidery reveals a cutout design, devoid of padding, with the white, fragrant scent of her breasts emanating from the small openings. With each movement, my wife's full breasts sway alluringly before the camera. And so it went, one bra after another was put on my wife, until the seventh one. I recognized it as the dark purple half-cup bra she had tried on one morning before. Each of the seven bras had its own unique features, but each one seemed more impressive than the last.
With the eighth bra, the screen first showed the words "Ultimate Move" in large, blood-red letters, then the camera cut to my wife covering her chest with a large towel, her face flushed, shyly asking the person behind the camera, "I'm so shy! This one really won't do, can we not record it?" A deep voice sounded from behind the camera, laughing as he said to my wife, "Don't worry, I don't mind." My wife leaned close to the camera and whispered, "Hehe…he's pretending to be generous!" Before I could even process the meaning of this conversation, my wife had already untied the towel in front of the camera, revealing a burgundy half-cup bra. It was also a half-cup bra, but this burgundy bra was more revealing than any of the previous bras. The entire bra cup was made of wine-red, semi-transparent tulle, embroidered with an unidentified flower. The stem grew from the outer side of the breast all the way to the nipple, with the bud just landing on the nipple. My wife wasn't actually completely naked; she wore nipple covers, but the two exaggeratedly large covers on her breasts were still very noticeable.
My wife carefully explained the various design details, but my eyes were fixed on her snow-white breasts. I couldn't tell if it was the sunlight outside the window or the lighting behind the camera, but even the tiny veins under her skin were clearly visible. I stared intently and could even faintly see her barely perceptible pores. While other young and beautiful models were striking poses, my wife's casual movements seemed more innocent and natural. At the same time, every gesture beneath her cute face exuded a mature and alluring charm. I wanted to jump into the screen immediately, forcefully tear open her bra, and make her submit to me. That night, however, we had a huge fight. "Didn't you say you wouldn't do that lingerie ad?" "I didn't. It's an ad, a mock ad."
I didn't understand the online advertising ecosystem and didn't understand my wife's meaning for a moment: "What?" My wife suddenly showed an impatient expression, but it disappeared in an instant: "I was just reading from the script, a pure product introduction, not posted on my own page!" "So what? Don't talk to me with your jargon, I don't understand it, all I know is you're wearing a bra and letting everyone see!" I got agitated. "Only female customers will go to the internal pages!" My wife, who had been very meek, also raised her voice. "What about me? I'm not a woman! When you film these videos, it's...it's...it's...it's..." I don't know if it was because I was in the wrong or because I was nervous, but suddenly my head throbbed and I stammered: "Men will see it!" "Incomprehensible!" My wife's eyes fell on the TV behind me. Seeing her cold expression, I couldn't help but yell, "Your last...piece...piece...it was all transparent! Every man could see everything! Tell me...tell me...tell me...wasn't that going too far?" My wife stood up from the sofa, looking me down at her. I saw tears welling in her eyes. "I went too far? I went too far? Do you think I wanted this? I need to earn money! I don't want to do it anymore, fine, I'll never do it again! Our family can beg!" Seeing my wife's tears, I felt a little hesitant. "But it's just nipple covers, too revealing..." "I'm ashamed too, but I need to earn money to support the family!" My wife clenched her fists and pounded them hard on her thighs.
Seeing her clenched fists trembling, my heart softened. Thinking of how she went from a pampered full-time housewife to the breadwinner of the family, I should blame the drunk driver. I tried to slowly suppress my anger and stop our argument. Suddenly, that deep male voice hidden behind the camera pierced through my anger, ringing in my mind, reigniting my rage: "Shy? Making money? There's a man behind the camera! I don't mind! He's pretending to be generous! You're completely naked in front of that man! Let him see your whole breasts! And you're still giggling!" I saw a tear slide down my wife's left cheek. Before I could even read the change in her eyes, she slapped me hard across the face: "He's the boss of an underwear company!"
Surprise, shame, and anger surged through me at once. I stood up angrily and swung my hand forcefully, but only saw my large hand barely brush past my wife's chest. I realized that I was still sitting obediently in the wheelchair, while my wife stared at my empty hand. My wife muttered, "You want to hit me?" Looking at my wife, who seemed so superior, I felt a surge of shame and anger, a strange hatred erupting from the depths of my heart: "Look...look...look...what are you looking at! To hell with the boss!! The boss can look at you! I'll give you money now, you take it out and let me see it right now! Right now! Why aren't you moving? Oh, right! Making money, huh? I, this cripple, didn't try to stuff money into your hands, did I? Did you even properly receive the boss's money?" In my rage, I even cupped my chest with my hand and made a lewd pinching gesture. "Slap!" "Slap!" Two crisp slaps landed, one on each side, and my cheeks instantly felt like they were on fire. When I calmed down, the house was already empty.
I spent what seemed like an eternity alone, surrounded by four walls. On Friday afternoon, without my knowledge, Wang Lingde picked up my son from school and then the two of them went to the factory to find me, demanding that I apologize to my wife. I always thought my wife had run back to her parents' home, but it turns out she'd been hiding at Wang Lingde's house all along. My wife's family are all snobbish. When I was successful, they fawned over me, but after I broke my legs, they immediately looked at me with disdain. I saw it all. Thinking about this, I felt even more ashamed and humiliated. Even in her anger and grief, my wife still managed to save a shred of face for me. After bringing my wife home, it took some time before we reconciled. However, this fortress of our home was crumbling little by little, without me even noticing.
Since my wife came home, every night as she lies beside me, I can't help but ponder the "script" she spoke of, the meaning of those two lines of dialogue. "Don't worry, I don't mind." "Hehe...he's just pretending to be generous!" I've never understood why the lingerie brand owner and my wife designed this exchange, like a conversation between husband and wife. But whenever I think about it, I begin to fear losing my wife, my son, and my family. I try to suppress my unease and doubts. In the days that followed, my wife's sponsored content became a subtle gap between us. I dared not ask about the content of her sponsored posts, and she no longer brought it up herself. I could only glean information about her every move from her social media page.
According to my wife, she officially accepted the lingerie company's sponsored content, openly promoting different types of bras on her professional page, carefully sharing her experiences with her female fans. Whether it was the clever lighting or my wife's excellent maintenance, "Xiao Luo" in the short videos became increasingly radiant. My wife's clothing and style became more and more fashionable, and there was always something about her that I couldn't shake off. She wasn't tall, but with her carefully chosen outfit, her already long and straight legs appeared exceptionally long. Previously, she always conservatively wore full-cup bras, the thick padding tightly encasing her ample breasts. Now, under the guidance and encouragement of that so-called boss, she began trying on unpadded bras, subtly revealing the naturally beautiful shape and firm elasticity of her breasts. My wife wasn't wearing the deliberately exaggerated low-cut dresses popular with young women these days, but the carefree swaying of her chest was a hundred times more effective than blatant exposure.
The more radiant my wife was, the more ashamed I felt in comparison. I felt like a lump of meat, shamelessly clinging to her, my filthy, rotting flesh gradually becoming stinking. On the street, fans who recognized "Beautiful Xiao Luo" couldn't hide their astonishment, surprise, disappointment, and pity; they could only try to shift their gaze to their strikingly handsome son. The gazes of those fans were a stark reminder that I, this cripple, had insulted Xiao Luo's image as the perfect wife. From then on, I gradually chose to stay home on weekends, not wanting to tarnish my wife's sacred aura. One afternoon after lunch, I saw a comment: "So Xiao Luo and I live in the same building! But I was too shy to say hello. I want to say you and your husband are such a perfect match! So happy!" The comment also had a considerable number of likes. However, when I checked the page again during another break, the sponsored post had disappeared. It reappeared after work. The fan's comment and my wife's abrupt action had stirred up a thorn in my side.
So, I bought several mini surveillance cameras and hid them in inconspicuous places in my house. Then, I opened the app on my tablet and confirmed in the four small squares that the cameras clearly showed the dining room, living room, and bedroom. Monday finally arrived. I went to work as usual, but during breaks and lunch, I would immediately rush to a corner of the factory to check on things at home. As I waited, I asked myself what I was expecting. Was I expecting my wife to be quietly filming her sponsored content, talking to herself? Or was I hoping to catch her in the act, filming her and her lover making love in my bed? One day, two days, three days passed, and I began to feel ashamed. Watching my wife's daily routine—filming sponsored content, shipping orders, contacting new manufacturers, cleaning, doing laundry, grocery shopping, cooking—I couldn't help but ask myself if I had forgotten to be grateful. Even if my wife had the means to be with another man, divorce me (who's a cripple), and take our son, at least the snobbish women in her family would approve. But all these years, my wife had been by my side, taking care of our home so well.
A week later, I had almost forgotten about the security camera. During my lunch break, I opened the player for an American TV series and then casually opened the monitor app. The dining room and living room were empty, except for the live streaming equipment set up around the living room and bras carelessly scattered on the sofa. However, when I switched the screen to the live feed from the bedroom, I felt as if my chest was being pounded, a breath caught in my throat, a thousand words stuck in my throat, and a sharp pain shot through my heart. I tried to tell myself that my vision was blurry, then, supporting my right hand with my left, I forced myself to click on the small square on the screen. The image gracefully popped up from the lower right corner, becoming a large square.
Seeing the enlarged image, my heart tightened, and tears fell drop by drop onto the tablet. The world was completely silent, as if I had fallen into the end of a nightmare. No matter how desperately I screamed, there was still only deathly silence. It was as if I had returned to the moment when the sports car crashed and broke my legs, and then watched the doctors cut off my perfectly intact legs, piece by piece. Finally, I returned to the wheelchair and saw the tablet on the amputated limb, playing a video of a burly man tightly pressing down on my beloved wife. My wife's smooth, white legs shamelessly wrapped around the man's waist, her slender fingers tracing patterns on his broad back. The man, with all his limbs intact, knelt on the bed, his toes pounding the mattress, thrusting forward repeatedly.
With each thrust, my wife's elegant, beautiful face contorted in an exaggerated, ecstatic display of lust. With another thrust, she opened her full lips and cried out in the man's ear, as if telling him of her inner pleasure. My wife had cried out in my ear before, so I knew very well that the woman I loved was enjoying another man's pleasure. On screen, the burly man skillfully and deliberately manipulated my wife's desires. As the burly man thrust his powerful hips into my wife, she feigned pain, her beautiful brows furrowing, her large, round eyes closing, her full lips biting, revealing a look of irresistible lust. When he slowed his thrusts, gently pumping, she gazed at him with a wistful look, passionately extending her tongue for him to suckle. They engaged in this passionate yet obscene tongue-twisting act repeatedly. Suddenly, the man arched his back, his exaggerated force sending my wife tumbling forward half a foot, then hoisting her legs, which were wrapped around his waist, onto his shoulders. My wife still retained a sliver of shame, one hand covering her eyes, the other resting on her breast, but this demure posture would only drive any man wild. Sure enough, once he was in a kneeling position, he thrust in quickly and powerfully. The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh rose and fell, continuous and incessant.
At this moment, I finally saw the burly man's face clearly. Hidden behind the dressing mirror, the monitor, bathed in sunlight streaming through the window, clearly captured the burly man's near-perfect profile. Deep, resolute eyes, a straight, prominent nose, and a perpetual smile on his thin lips—I recognized the man pinning my wife down; it was my good brother, Wang Lingde. Wang Lingde slowly bent over, his hands bracing on the bed, pressing my wife's legs beneath him. My wife always said she wasn't flexible enough, and every time I pressed down like this, she would scream in pain. But at this moment, her muscles miraculously softened, folding her body like a yoga master. Wang Lingde adjusted the angle, thrusting forward with force, and my wife let out a wanton, lewd moan. Encouraged by the moan, Wang Lingde thrust harder, and my wife responded with a continuous stream of moans. I switched to another monitor, its lens hidden in the bedside lamp, which briefly panned down to show my wife's face. As Wang Lingde's passion intensified, my wife had already released her hands from her face, unconsciously placing them between her breasts and thighs. I knew this was her prelude.
When I was still healthy, whenever I offered myself to her, she would always unconsciously grasp her swaying breasts, stretching out her slender fingers to pinch and rub her large nipples, sometimes even pulling them until they were red and swollen in her excitement. As if he already knew his wife's little habit, Wang Lingde slowed down slightly, spreading her legs apart. Sure enough, as expected, my wife was obsessively pulling and stroking her nipples. Wang Lingde bent over and sucked hard on the nipple that my wife was pinching between her fingers, then, as if deliberately showing off to me in front of the camera, he gently bit my wife's large nipple and slowly pulled it upwards. The dark brown nipple was first stretched to its limit, then the areola arched upwards, and finally, my wife's full breasts were forcibly pulled by Wang Lingde. My wife frowned and closed her eyes, crying out in pain, but her hands willingly cradled her breasts below, awaiting the man's cruel biting.
The man continued to suck and bite, turning her originally brown nipples into large, blood-red clitoris. Wang Lingde readjusted his position, pressing my wife's thighs down behind her knees, then gestured for her to hold onto her knees. Wang Lingde then brandished his enormous penis in front of the camera, it swaggering towards my wife and me like a red-hot stick.
My wife, in a voice I'd never heard before—both shy and seductive—said, "Come in quickly, you big bad guy!" On the screen, her legs were still spread wide open, but her hands, which had been supporting her knees, slid down her inner thighs to her mons pubis. I couldn't help but doubt my eyes; my wife was so shamelessly using her fingers to spread her legs, exposing her delicate, tender flesh. In the past, my wife had always rejected this request, saying it was something only prostitutes and porn stars would do. Now, she was so vulgar, actively exposing herself to Wang Lingde. Forgetting I was in the factory, I blurted out, "No!"
I immediately realized my abruptness and gestured to my colleagues that I was having a nightmare, because talking in one's sleep is common among people with trauma. When I returned to the screen, Wang Lingde had already inserted his penis into my wife's vagina and was thrusting vigorously. I watched Wang Lingde thrust in and out, forced to listen to my wife's rising and falling moans and cries. After an unknown amount of time, Wang Lingde pulled out of his wife's vagina and straddled her. He grabbed her still-erect penis and shoved it into her mouth. The camera hidden in the bedside lamp captured the wife's final moment. The inverted image highlighted her luscious, full red lips, the man's penis moving back and forth at the entrance. Even after the man withdrew from her mouth with satisfaction, pulling out a few drops of fluid, she still licked the remaining fluid from the corner of her mouth.
Finally, her pretty face unintentionally faced the hidden camera, a satisfied smile on her face. I angrily shut down the program, and without even asking my supervisor for leave, I rushed into the street. I kept pushing the handle next to the tire, aimlessly pushing forward. My eyes were filled with tears, and the road ahead seemed endless. It wasn't until the streetlights came on and a kind passerby stopped me, pointing out that my hands were bleeding, that I calmed down. I stared intently at the pedestrians on the street, pairs of limbs dangling before my eyes. I couldn't help but lower my head, forcing a bitter smile at my own two limbs, one longer than the other. My wife's satisfied expression, her sweet smile, kept swirling in my mind. I had to admit, I was no longer able to satisfy the woman I loved. With this crippled body, my wife couldn't find the satisfaction a woman should have. Even a dwarf can possess a princess, while I, like a winter melon, half-kneeling, half-crawled, rolled between the legs of the woman I loved, forcing her to sit on me. What could be more ridiculous, more absurd, more pathetic than this kind of sexual encounter?
I either chose to endure, to bear the future of my wife's continued infidelity, or to immediately tear off the mask, expose my wife's dirty secret, and lose everything—the woman I loved, my only son.

[The End]

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Beautiful wife Xiao Luo

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