Per my usual, the first thing I did when I got home was to hop onto my laptop and log into my Twitter account, so I could catch up on my wife’s latest tweets on her ‘secret’ Twitter account.
I discovered her secret account not long after I first suspected my wife, Liz, was cheating on me. Her behavior had started to change. She was taking more Fridays for ‘girl’s nights out’ and not coming home until later and later, sometimes, long after the bars were closed. At first, I confronted her on those nights, tossing my suspicion out there. But there was this thing. I mean, yeah, she denied it (which I expected), but she was in a good mood. Apologetic, which is unusual for her (a guilty conscience, I suppose) and in a good mood. Something that was becoming rarer and rarer between she and I.
Every time I tossed this accusation out there, she would distract me by having sex with me. Good sex. Hot set. A passion within her ignited that I hadn’t seen from her in way too long. Her ploy worked. After exhausting me with awesome sex, I would always do the same thing. Let it go.
She was also spending a little more time on her phone. That annoyed me, especially because she was extremely protective over it, never leaving her phone out of her sight or possession for even a second, going to the extent of taking her phone off of a charge, taking it and the charger with her into the bathroom to pee, or shower or whatever, bringing it and the charger back out into the living room (or wherever) and plugging it back in. She was definitely cheating.
But again. Cheating, yes. Fighting with me constantly, no. I was starting to feel like we were actually getting along like a married couple again, no longer suffering the daily worries of hiring a divorce attorney. I kind of hated not knowing. Or, well, knowing, but having to pretend like I was such a moron that I didn’t know. It was so fucking obvious to me, that it ground my ass to think that she could believe I was that much of an idiot.
But, no matter what, I could not get that woman to just fess up and tell me. Every time I brought it up, she’d fuck the living daylights out of me. Sometimes, if I was in the mood for raunchy or even rough sex, I would throw an accusation or pointed question at her. Boom. Every time. Mind blowing sex came my way. She wielded her pussy like a tool to keep me quiet. To not rock the boat she clearly wanted to remain on.
So, fuck it. I let it go.
It wasn’t long after I figured her out that she made a cardinal error. It was so brief that I damn near didn’t have the chance to take advantage of it. She was doing the dishes and her phone buzzed. She dried her hands, picked it up and did her thing. Then she did another thing. I couldn’t tell what the ‘things’ she was doing were, but that’s when it happened. She sat her phone down and walked off. I was at the kitchen table. I snapped up, bustled over to her phone, just long enough to catch what she was using for her Twitter account. I heard her coming back, so I retook my position at the table, pretending like nothing was wrong. She snapped her phone from the counter and buzzed off again.
Finally, I had at least something. Something that I could use to at least get a better sense of what she was up to, assuming that she was admitting it with that account.
Of course, I was shocked and dismayed to find out that Liz had gone from disgruntled wife, to happy, self-proclaimed black cock slut within those short two months.
I started from the bottom of the tweets available on her page, working my way back up. Back then, she wasn’t tweeting all that often, but it appeared as though she began tweeting prior to having her first experience. The first tweets were about how she was thinking about trying a black guy. There were a few of those. Tweets talking about how she was tired of hearing her friends tell her how amazing it was and two tweets admitting that she may as well try it, because her marriage was in the shitter anyway.
From there it moved on to, ‘Oh my God, I did it and it was AMAZING!’ and how she couldn’t wait for her next ‘Girls night out’ to try it again. And again. And again. Then it was about me accusing her and how she fucked me back into silence. Then about how she was no longer thinking our marriage sucked. How she instead wanted to ‘keep me around to pay the bills’ so she could treat her ‘real’ men to dinners, movies and motel rooms along with, ‘supporting her daughters’ and ‘keeping an eye on them’ so she could have an easier time ‘meeting her bulls’.
That’s what she called them.
As time went on, her tweets got sluttier and sluttier. She started to often call herself just that. A black cock slut. A whore for black men. Even a ‘Cum Dumpster’. That was even more shocking to me. My wife, referring to herself as a cum dumpster, sometimes shortening it to ‘Cum Dump.’
She made other confessions and called herself other seemingly derogatory names, like ‘Cock Sleeve’ or ‘Fuck Pig.’
These tweets didn’t come all at once, mind you. On that first day, when I looked at them, I once again, was going to confront her, this time, almost ready to leave her over it. I think it was the way she made it sound like she was just wanting to now use me to ‘pay for things’. That got to me. But as I sat there and thought about it, as I stewed, I realized that divorced or not, that was still going to happen. Working for the big three, I would end up paying an assload in child support and alimony and I absolutely hated the idea of becoming a weekend dad. As I calmed down, I began to realize that no. I wasn’t going to rock her boat. If she wanted to fuck black men, there was nothing I could do to stop her.
And I also kept going back to the fact that to my face, things were actually going pretty damned good. She seemed genuinely happy with how things were. With me. With our girls. With everything. We joked around. We teased each other. Like when we were first married, but even more relaxed than then.
After a while, I started to even enjoy seeing her tweets. I looked forward to reading her little notes about the adventures she was having and I even started to enjoy the way she degraded herself. Liz is a gorgeous woman. If she wanted, I think she could have any guy she wanted. The idea that she was enjoying things that degraded her and even begged for more, started to turn me on.
Finally, after about four months, I fully embraced it with no further compunctions. I simply accepted it. My wife was a whore for black men and I was going to keep letting her be just that. A whore for black cock.
I made one last ditch effort to convince her to confess to me what she was doing. For her thirty sixth birthday, I got her something that she had hinted at wanting for some time. A tattoo. Only I didn’t purchase her the tat she wanted. She wanted a rose on her ankle. To start off with something simple to see if she liked it. I went into the tat shop, paid for it, gave the artist (a black guy) her picture and told her to tat a QOS (Queen of Spades) on her ankle. I asked him to tell her it was a rose until she figured it out on her own. I handed him a sealed birthday card where I wrote her a note. “You can confess doing this if you want to. I won’t stop you. I want you to keep doing it.” I even told the artist she would fuck him if he wanted a piece of her. He smiled and said he might just take me up on it.
I told Liz where to get her tattoo and she was giddy about it. She thanked me and headed straight out, coming back three hours later with a smile on her face, kissing me on the cheek and then fucking my brains out after telling me thanks, she loved the tattoo and the sentiment, but she was not, in fact, having sex with black men.
Even though her pussy was like raw meat when she followed her normal routine of fucking my brains out after I accused her of cheating.
And, she was proud to wear the tattoo. Go figure. “No, honey, I don’t fuck black guys.” And then to her friends. “Look at my new tattoo! You all know what this means,” wink, wink, giggle, giggle.
It cracked me up.
One of my favorite tweets; “Saw two black guys at a gas station. Followed them into the bathroom and got on my knees. Held my mouth open and let them use it.”
Her next tweet said. “That’s my new favorite thing to do!”
To get on her knees and let two random guys use her open mouth. That’s my wife’s new favorite thing to do. It about sums her up now. About the same time those two tweets came through, she started to go to an entirely different level.
“Oldest daughter was asking me questions about my QOS tattoo. I think she’s black curious!”
With that tweet was a picture of Brooke, or oldest and most responsible daughter. She was getting ready to turn seventeen.
“Like if you think I should have my oldest daughter blacked!”
Have her blacked? Oh, boy. If that kept up, I was definitely going to have to intervene.
As I reflected over my wife’s history, I finally got to my wife’s Twitter page. My three daughters were all in their rooms as usual, all doing there versions of whatever their things are. Parenting is different now than when I was a kid. Even with my youngest daughter at thirteen, I barely see them other than quick hellos, a what’s for dinner, Dad, or seeing them with their hands out, asking for money.
Per usual, I went to Kinsey’s first tweet for that day. As time went on, she tweeted more and more throughout her day, often just throwing things out there as they hit her head, sometimes tossing in a picture of her doing something with a black guy. I’ve seen countless pictures of black cocks in my wife’s mouth. She seems to love sucking cock. News to me.
“OMG! Talked to a fellow BBC whore today. Cuckolds her hubby. Let her bull move in with them last week to own her and she lets him use both her daughters!”
I read that tweet over and over again. There were a lot of missing facts there, like how old the daughters were, but regardless, I was stunned. I wouldn’t let myself look at my wife’s next tweet for fear of the worst. I focused on the tweet I had already read, trying to fathom how a mother could allow herself to go that far. And, my cock began to ache.
I tried to tell myself it was for another reason, any other reason than the implication that was stuck in my head. Liz seemed excited about what her friend was doing. Excited. Like the envious type of excited. I couldn’t believe it.
First, our oldest daughter and the suggestion that she wanted to have Brooke blacked and now this, implying that our oldest daughter wasn’t good enough. She wanted them all blacked—wanted them all turned into what she was. A whore for black cock. A cum dumpster. A cock sleeve for black men. My cock ached a little more. Now, with more intensity. My wife was addicted to black cock, that much was for sure, but was I as well? Was there some part of me that liked the idea of letting black men use all three of my daughters as cum dumps.
Nah, I thought to myself, dismissing the absurd notion and finally allowing myself to read the next tweet.
“I definitely would love to be owned like that. To have a black man living in my home, using me at his will, making me do all the things I want to do for him every day!”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “But, Liz, I think you had it right. If you let a black guy move in, he won’t stop with you.”
“I want to do it,” was her next tweet. It came within minutes of the previous tweet. “I want to find a black man and let him move in with my family!”
“I’ve cum three times thinking about letting a black man own my daughters. All three of them! Fuck, I’m so horny right now!”
And then. “Damn, the thought of my daughters serving black cock is so fucking hot! I need to tell my husband what I am!”
And finally. “My husband works in a factory in Detroit with so many black guys! Maybe he’ll help me find someone to own me and my girls!”
I had to get away from my computer for a while. I left it sitting on my bed and went out to the kitchen. I walked to my refrigerator, grabbed three beers and brought them to my kitchen table. I twisted the tops off of all three, grabbed one and slammed it, going right for the second and then the third, finishing them all off in a flash. I went back to the refrigerator and grabbed one more, opting to enjoy the taste of that one. My buzz took the edge from my anger. I was still stewing but not with as much intensity.
And then my youngest daughter, Hailey came in.
