Triggered by Married Cunt
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
When it comes to trigger words, I’ve come to realize over the years that nothing gets me harder, faster, or deeper into my obsessions than those two simple syllables: “married” and “cunt.” Put them together, and it’s like a bullet to the base of my cock, every single time. The phrase “married cunt” is practically a fetish object in itself, a two-word spell that cracks open the deepest, dirtiest cell in my brain and releases all the mess inside. It started as a background current years ago when I’d read stories online or stumble into the right porn clip, but it only truly became the nucleus of my sexuality—my kink, my shame, my pride—after that night in the hotel room with my wife and her boss. I guess I should say, “the night I watched my wife, the woman I naively thought I’d claimed, get fucked open for the first time by another man.” But that’s not exactly true, because she was no stranger to sex before me, and the real trauma and thrill of it all was seeing how she welcomed it, how her body and voice and cunt told the truth—my truth—better than I ever could.
It was about twenty-five years ago, in a mid-tier hotel on the edge of downtown, that we arranged to meet up with her boss for a night that was supposed to be about “trying something new.” My wife had always been wild, and I was the one who insisted I could handle her, encouraged her to go after what she wanted, convinced myself I wanted it too. I did, but I also didn’t, and the tension between the two is what made it so fucking electric. We’d flirted our way through dinner, her boss buying a round of drinks that kept us just a little off-balance, a little more open, and by the time we reached the hotel room, all bets were off. I remember her boss—let’s call him Greg, because that’s as bland as he was compared to what he did to my wife—smiling as he pulled off his tie, loosened his shirt buttons, and sat at the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving her.
She was a natural seductress, my wife, but what made her so dangerous was that she never had to try. She didn’t flirt, she just existed in a way that made every man—including me—want to be inside her, to mark her somehow, to claim her even if it was for a second. That night, she wore a tight, sleeveless dress with nothing under it, a simple black thing that clung to her like water. I could see the outline of her nipples with every movement, and she made a show of crossing and uncrossing her legs as she talked, the hem riding up higher each time. Greg noticed, of course. His eyes were all over her, and she knew it, and I knew it, and the three of us just let the energy build until it was a living thing, an animal prowling around the room, desperate to be fed.
We started with drinks, because that’s what people do when they’re about to do something unspeakable. Greg poured whiskey, and I remember the way my wife wrapped her lips around the glass, eyes locked on her boss. She didn’t even look at me as she drank. I could feel my cock swelling already, the shame and anticipation colliding into a dull ache. At first, we made small talk—the fake kind, about work and weather and mutual friends that neither of them actually cared about. But their bodies told a different story, shifting closer, knees touching under the cheap desk, hands brushing with every refill.
After about half an hour, Greg stood up and walked slowly to my wife. He took her glass and set it aside, then reached for her hand. He didn’t ask for permission; he just pulled her to her feet in one steady motion. I could tell she was already wet, her skin flushed, breath coming a fraction faster than normal. He kissed her, and she melted—there’s no other word for it—melting into him, her arms winding up around his neck. I knew right then that I’d lost, that this night was going to change something fundamental in the way I saw her, and in the way I saw myself.
He slid his hands down her back, gripping her ass through the thin dress, and she made a soft noise—half gasp, half moan—that sent a jolt through my body. The next ten minutes were a blur of hands and mouths, dresses being tugged up and shirts being pulled off, the three of us tangled together on the bed. I found myself kneeling by the headboard, watching as Greg pulled my wife’s dress over her head, revealing her bare skin and that perfect, gleaming cunt I’d called my own. He looked at it, then at me, and said, “You don’t mind, right?” I shook my head, because what else could I do? I was already stroking myself, the entire scene somehow outside my control.
Greg knelt between her legs, his cock hard and heavy in his hand. My wife was on her back, knees spread wide, fingers working herself open as she stared up at him like she was starving. He didn’t rush, just pressed the tip of his cock against her entrance, smearing her slickness over his head. He paused and looked over at me, a crooked smile on his face, then said, “You want a closer look?” I remember crawling forward on my hands and knees, feeling utterly exposed, my own cock throbbing in my fist. He guided my head down so I was inches from where they were about to connect, and then, with a deliberate slowness, he pushed himself inside her.
I’ll never forget the sound she made as he entered her—this guttural, wild sound, halfway between pleasure and pain, that I’d never heard from her before. Greg drove himself deeper, and my wife’s cunt stretched around him, swallowing him whole. He looked down at me, our eyes meeting, and then he said the words that are still burned into my brain a quarter of a century later.
He leaned forward, voice low and cold: “Look at it. Look at my cock fucking your wife’s married cunt.”
I almost came right then. The humiliation was absolute, and yet, it was the only thing that ever made sense to me. I got closer, staring as he pumped into her, her pussy stretched wide and slick, milking him with every thrust. He said it again, slower this time: “That’s it, get closer. You like seeing your wife’s married cunt filled up by a real man?”
As much as it stung, as much as it broke me, I loved it. I loved the way her body responded to him, the way her legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him in deeper, the way her fingers dug into his back. Every time he bottomed out inside her, he’d glance down at me, making sure I saw it happen, making sure I knew what was being taken from me. My wife’s cunt was married, but it was his now, at least for that night, and I was just the spectator, the cuckold, the afterthought.
They fucked like animals, and I watched every second. I watched the way his cock glistened with her juices, the way her clit swelled and throbbed under his thumb, the way her moans turned into screams as she came, again and again, clamping down on him like a fist. He’d narrate the whole thing for me, like a sports announcer but infinitely more cruel. “See how she takes it? See how hungry her married cunt is for cock? Bet you can’t get her off like this.” He wasn’t wrong, and I knew it. She came harder than I’d ever seen, shaking and shuddering with every orgasm, her body a live wire of nerve endings.
At one point, he pulled out and made me watch as her pussy gaped open, red and raw and leaking. He rubbed the head of his cock over her clit, then back inside, filling her again. “Never seen a married cunt this greedy,” he laughed. My wife just giggled and begged for more, her voice high and desperate. When he finally finished, he pulled out and jerked himself off, shooting a thick load all over her stomach and tits. He smeared it around, making a mess, then looked at me and said, “Clean her up, cuck.”
I did. I licked every drop from her skin, tasting his cum and her arousal, feeling my own cock pounding between my legs. She pulled me up and kissed me, letting me know—without saying a word—that this was how things were now. I was the spectator, the cleaner, the one who only got sloppy seconds, if that. And the whole time, the phrase kept echoing in my head: married cunt, married cunt, married cunt.
That was the night it became my trigger, my obsession, my curse and my joy. Whenever I hear those words, or even think them, my body floods with the same helpless arousal, the same toxic cocktail of shame and lust and pride. I’ve spent the past twenty-five years chasing that feeling, reading and re-reading the same stories, seeking out videos where the man humiliates the husband in exactly the right way.
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