Work Text:
“I bet you want to fuck her, don’t you?”
Maybe in any other circumstance, another man would say yes.
After all, what kind of man wouldn’t want a wife that helped her husband ogle other girls?
That might have been just fine, except… these weren’t just any girls that my wife was making me stroke to. They were pictures. Pictures of… her.
…as a teenager, no less…
I gulped. My eyes trembled along with the rest of me. My wife had one hand on the page of her scrapbook, pointing out every picture of a younger, more lithe, more childish version of herself. This time, it was a fifteen-year-old version of the woman that I would one day marry, except in this picture, she’s sprawled out at some sleepover, bare legs kicked high, giggling in a pair of shorts so tiny they barely count. And the shirt, it’s not even a real shirt, just some ratty tank top with a cartoon bunny half-faded on it. Her hair’s in these messy pigtails, all frizz and chaos. She’s got these ridiculous fuzzy slippers on her feet, and she’s trying to smother the other girl in a pillow fight, but the look on her face… holy shit. It’s her. That same sly, bratty, know-exactly-what-I’m-doing look, only in a younger, sharper package.
My wife gripped a little harder, forcing my hand to keep pace even though my brain was fucking melting.
“Look how skinny I was,” she purred, like it was the world’s dirtiest secret. “I bet you would’ve loved to get your hands on me back then, huh? You would’ve ruined me.” Her mouth was so close, I could taste her words, sticky sweet, maybe a little cruel.
I wanted to tell her to stop. Not because I didn’t want it, but because the wanting was so much worse than anything I’d ever felt. My cock throbbed in her fist, leaking slick over both our fingers. Her nails scratched at the underside of the head, swirling the tip, making my thighs jerk like I had no control left.
She kept flipping through the pages, pointing out every disgusting, perfect, humiliating little detail, and I just… let her. No. I loved it. I fucking loved it.
Here she was, twelve or thirteen, holding a birthday cake, her face smeared with chocolate icing. There, fourteen, at some stupid summer camp, wearing a swimsuit that showed off her flat chest and sharp hips. In every photo, she was smaller, sillier, oblivious—or maybe not oblivious, maybe just playing up how innocent she wasn’t. My wife kept giggling, kept whispering in my ear, “You’re such a fucking pervert, aren’t you? You want to fuck little girls, don’t you? You want to fuck me when I was just a kid.”
I couldn’t answer. My teeth were chattering. My balls felt like they were about to tear themselves off my body. She jacked me faster, rough now, like she wanted to punish me for how depraved I was.
I started to whimper. I don’t even care how it sounds. I was this close to cumming all over a laminated picture of my own wife as a fucking minor, and she was just eating it up.
“Imagine it,” she hissed, flipping to a page where she’s fifteen in a cheer skirt, top riding up, smile wide and evil. “Would you have bent me over right there, in front of all my friends? Would you have made me your little slut?”
Her hand twisted. I bucked, gasping, eyes glued to the photo, to her smooth thighs and bare knees and the hint of panties under the skirt.
And my wife laughed, dark and mean and greedy. “Come on, you sick fuck,” she whispered, “cum for me. Cum for me. Cum on my fucking face, you pervert. Show me how much you want it.”
And I did. God, did I ever.
I’ve never felt anything like it in my life. I mean, I’ve cum hard before, she’s made me cum hard before, but this was something else. My whole body locked up, every muscle shaking, my toes curling into the carpet. It hurt, almost, the way I held it in, like I was afraid of letting go. Maybe I really was afraid, deep down, of what would happen if I just let myself do it. I don’t know. I just know that I stared at that glossy teenage picture of my own wife—the same one taunting me with her bratty little smirk, her knees spread and her skirt bunched up, her messy pigtails yanked tight—and I lost every shred of self-control.
My wife jacked my cock with both hands, one twisting around the head, the other squeezing my shaft so tight I saw stars. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Think about fucking me like that. Think about ruining your little girl.” Her voice was dark, low, but there was laughter layered under it. Pure mean glee. “Can’t you just picture it? Me, fifteen, begging for you to show me how it’s done? Look at my legs. Look at those stupid panties. You’d fuck me right through them, wouldn’t you?”
I nodded, or maybe just spasmed. My head thudded against her shoulder and I panted, mouth open, drool running down my chin. My balls pulled up so hard I thought they’d snap. And then—
It hit me. It hit me so hard I actually screamed. Not loud, not like a real scream, but this desperate, choked whine that sounded like it was coming from someone else. I exploded all over her scrapbook. I mean, I fucking painted those laminated pages, thick and hot and so much of it I thought I’d pass out. It splattered across the picture, dripped down her bare cartoon-bunny chest, beaded up in the photo over her thighs and knees.
And the whole time, my wife just kept talking. Kept taunting me. Kept rubbing the mess in with her fingers, smearing it into every perfect, disgusting detail.
“There you go, baby. Look at you… look at what you did. You really are a sick fuck. You’re not even ashamed, are you? I married a pedophile freak, huh?”
She moved my hand, made me stroke again, even though I was so sensitive it felt like dying.
“I bet you wish she was here right now. Bet you wish you could bend her over and fill her up. Don’t you?”
I couldn’t even breathe. My heart was beating out of my chest, my dick still twitching, my hand sticky with cum and guilt and… something else. Something worse. Something better.
I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell her she was right.
That I was a pervert, a deviant, a monster.
But mostly, I wanted to do it again.
I think she knew that, too. The way she smiled at me, so proud and filthy, told me everything I needed to know. “You know,” she said, “…there’s one set of pictures here that always makes me laugh. God, I looked like such a brat. Just wait.”
She flipped the page, quick and casual, like she hadn’t just finished milking my soul out through my cock. One wet, sticky finger pointed straight at the center of the spread, right where my vision tunneled in and absolutely refused to leave.
There she was again, but this time… fuck.
I think my heart actually skipped.
Seven, maybe eight years old, tops.
Barely out of baby teeth.
And she’s everywhere, these glossy, full-color photos, all crammed together like her mom just couldn’t get enough of her back then.
Pigtails again, even messier, bows flopping around her ears. A tiny pink dress with a giant frilly collar, pulled up so high it should be illegal. Chubby legs flopped out and open, knees bruised from too many playground wipeouts, white cotton panties visible in almost every shot. She’s got this gap-toothed grin and cake all over her face, and she’s mugging for the camera like being the center of attention isn’t just her job, but her birthright.
I stared. I mean, full-on, slack-jawed, can’t-look-away stared.
My wife’s voice was syrupy, venomous, hungry. “Look at that. Look at me. Can you believe I was ever that tiny? That loud? That… dirty?”
I wanted to look away. I should’ve looked away. But the more I stared, the more my brain started flaring with the most fucked-up, radioactive thoughts. My balls ached; my cock didn’t even go soft, just hung there, twitching, leaking onto my own knuckles.
She giggled, crueler this time. “You know what’s funny, baby? I see these and I just think… God, doesn’t she look so much like our little girl? Emily’s got those same silly bows, don’t you think? The same little grin? She even wears her undies just like that, stretched tight over her little butt. Can you see it? Our own daughter, looking just like mommy did. You ever think about that~?”
I think I actually stopped breathing.
That’s when the hunger shifted. Hard. My brain was screaming at me to run, to deny, to never ever admit what was happening in my head—but my body? My body wanted to fucking die from how badly I wanted it.
My wife just grinned wider. “Oh, you do. You so do. You’re picturing it. Little Emily, sprawled out like that. Or maybe begging you to take a picture, just like this.” She drummed her nails against the photo, dragging my gaze right back down. “It’s okay, baby. You can tell me the truth. You want to fuck your own daughter, too, don’t you…?”
I shook, helpless. My breath came out in these weird, high little hiccups. Every cell in my body was burning.
She leaned in close, biting at my ear, her voice liquid evil. “You want both of us, don’t you…?”
I couldn’t even fucking talk. My mouth opened, nothing came out. My wife’s nails dragged lazy circles over the sticky mess on my balls, and her other hand flipped the page again, like she wanted to see just how far she could push me before I actually passed out.
She leaned right up against my ear, voice a sticky, poisonous candy drip. “You want us both… your wife and your little girl. You want to see them together, don’t you? You want to see your baby girl dressed up just like her mommy. Or, fuck, maybe not dressed at all. Maybe you want to see her in nothing but those tight little panties, just like I used to wear. God, I bet you’ve thought about it. I bet you’ve thought about how cute she’d look with your cock in her mouth. Would she cry? Would she choke? Or would she love it, just like Daddy does?”
My whole body felt like electricity and poison. I shook all over. My cock jerked in her grip, leaking slick down my shaft, my heart pounding like a hammer in my ears. I stared at the picture, at the perfect, evil brat face of my wife as a tiny child, and all I could see was Emily. Our Emily. Our sweet, happy, silly little girl with bows in her hair and gap-tooth grin and legs that never stopped moving. I couldn’t even lie to myself anymore. I wanted her that way. I wanted her more than anything.
My wife pressed harder, squeezing me, her breath hot on my neck. “I see the way you look at her, you know. The way you get quiet when she’s bouncing around in those little dresses. You want to split her open, don’t you? You want to ruin her. You want to bend her over and fuck her until she screams, just like you wish you could’ve done to me when I was her age. Is that it, baby? Is that what you want?”
She didn’t even let me speak. She just kept going, rough and relentless:
“I bet you dream about it. About taking Emily’s tiny little body and making her into a real woman. I bet you’d slide it in slow, at first, and she’d whimper and squirm, but you wouldn’t stop, would you? You’d fuck her little brains out, fill her up with your cum, make her beg for more. God, I bet you want to see her cry with your cock in her throat. Bet you want to feel her struggle, see her face all red and ruined, spit everywhere… maybe even tears. Or is it better if she loves it? If she’s just as sick and twisted as you are, and she begs for Daddy’s cock every single day?”
I moaned. I actually moaned, like a pathetic animal. My wife laughed, mean and thrilled, and started jerking me again, faster, her other hand clawing at my chest through my t-shirt, scratching my nipples and pinching hard. I thought I was going to lose my mind.
“God, you’re disgusting,” she purred, “and I love it. You should see your face right now. You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? For me? For us? For her?”
I couldn’t even answer. My mouth just hung open. I think I nodded, maybe, maybe not, maybe I just grunted, breathless and animal and absolutely, sickeningly desperate. My wife stared at me, her face inches from mine, and the way she grinned—it was like she’d planned this moment for years. Like she always knew this was the truth hiding in my bones.
“Say it,” she whispered. “Say you’d do anything. Say you’d ruin her for me.”
My throat worked. I couldn’t remember how to form words. My whole body was shaking, my cock still leaking, my breath coming in shallow, shuddery gasps. “I… I would. I’d do anything. Fuck, anything you want. Please, fuck, please…”
My wife’s hand never stopped. She twisted, squeezed, smeared my own filth into my skin and the scrapbook and even her own fingers, like she wanted to mark everything with the proof of what I was. She was laughing, soft and cruel, so proud. “That’s right,” she purred. “You’d do whatever I say, wouldn’t you? You’d do anything I wanted, even if it was the worst thing in the world.”
She leaned closer, her breath hot in my ear. “Do you want to go wake her up right now?”
I swear my brain just… blanked. Like, I heard the words but my mind refused to process them for half a second, like it was too much input, too much evil electricity at once. I just stared, not even blinking, as her voice poured into my skull.
“I mean it. We could do it right now. You could sneak into her room and make her into a real woman. You could finally show her what Daddy’s cock is for.” She giggled, and it was so fucking girlish and mean and wild that I almost came just from the sound alone. “I’d even help. I’d hold her down for you, if you wanted. Or maybe just watch while you break her in, nice and slow. I could take pictures, like my mom did for me.” Her tongue darted along the shell of my ear, wet and obscene. “Would you like that? Want to see your sweet little girl stuffed full of her own Daddy?”
I moaned. I didn’t even try to hold it back. I moaned like a dying animal, my whole body jerking, cock twitching so violently it hurt. My wife squeezed harder, jacked me rough, just the way she knew I loved it.
“Please,” I whimpered. I’d never begged like this in my life. “Please, please, please, I wanna—I need to—I need to cum, please, you’re killing me, fuck, you’re killing me, I need to cum so bad…”
She didn’t let up. She just grinned at me, mean and in control, and hissed, “Then think about her. Think about our little girl. Think about how tight she’d be, how hot and wet and scared. You’d split her in half, wouldn’t you? You’d ruin her for anyone else, ever. She’d always be Daddy’s special girl.”
I did. God help me, I did. I pictured Emily, tiny and soft and squirming, her little panties already soaked through, bows in her hair, nothing in the world but me and her and the sick, bottomless hunger twisting my guts into knots. I pictured her little face, at first scared, then maybe curious, and then, God, I wanted to see her smile, I wanted to see her just like her mom, bratty and bold, stuffing herself full of my cock like she belonged there.
I jerked in my own grip, couldn’t stop, couldn’t even keep my eyes open. The world went blurry, black at the edges, every nerve burning with need and shame.
My wife giggled again, delighted with herself. “That’s it, baby. You’re almost there. Go on, get off for me. Get off for your sweet little girl. Imagine pulling down her panties, seeing her cute little pussy ready for you. I bet you’d drool all over it. I bet you’d make her scream, just for you.”
She gripped me so hard it felt like my cock would snap, her nails digging into the slick head, twisting and scraping just the way she knew would finish me off. I screamed. I actually screamed, this desperate, half-choked animal sound. And I came. Harder than before, even, if you can believe it. It was like my body was trying to rip itself apart from the inside, like every cell needed to spill out of me right now or I’d die.
Cum sprayed everywhere, thick and hot, splattering across the scrapbook, across my wife’s fingers, across her bare thighs and the carpet. She didn’t stop. She milked every drop, kneading and twisting and spreading my mess over every disgusting little picture of her as a kid. And she kept whispering the whole time. “Look at that. Look at what you did. You really want her, don’t you? You want to fill your little girl up with Daddy’s cum. It’s okay,” she crooned, “it’s okay, you can admit it. You need it.”
I sobbed, actually sobbed, not even ashamed, not even able to care. My whole body was on fire and ice at the same time. I thought I’d black out.
My wife leaned in, licked the tears right off my cheek, and kissed me hard, sloppy, tongues tangling. “God, I love you,” she breathed. “You’re so fucking sick. You’re perfect.”
She let go of my cock, finally, and I slumped forward, dizzy and limp. She never even wiped her hands. She just smeared the sticky mess all over my thighs, then grabbed my face and made me look at her. “You want to do it, don’t you?” she whispered. “You want to go wake her up and fuck her, right now.”
I couldn’t even think straight. All I could do was nod. “Yes. God, yes.”
She smiled, wide and evil, and pecked my cheek. Just this little, almost innocent kiss, like we were having a date night, not plotting the ruination of our own child. Then she stood, tugging me up with her, and holy shit, I almost fell. My legs shook so hard I could barely stand.
My wife didn’t even let go. She kept one hand on my arm, steadying me, and then she pulled up the hem of her nightgown. Underneath? Just a scrap of white cotton, barely covering anything, dark with wet. I mean, soaked. She was drenched, absolutely dripping through the fabric, sticky and shiny in the lamplight. She didn’t bother hiding it—instead, she hooked her finger in the crotch, pulled it aside, and showed me just how bad she wanted it.
“I could make you eat it right now, you know,” she purred. “But I think it’s better if you save it. You’ll want to remember how much I want this, too. How much I want to see you break her in.”
I whimpered. I actually whimpered, weak and helpless, staring at her cunt, at the glistening mess between her legs, and all I could think was: she wants this. She wants this more than anything. She wants to watch me fuck our daughter. She wants to see me destroy her, right there in the pink, frilly sheets.
I was hard again. I mean, not even possible, not even human, but there it was, my cock twitching back to life, sticky with all the mess she’d already wrung out of me.
She laughed, soft and giddy, and leaned into my shoulder. “Come on, Daddy,” she whispered. “Let’s go see our little girl…”