Burn the Bitch!

I stood behind my husband for a few minutes, reading over his shoulder, before he realized I was there. It gave me enough time to scope out the ending of the Literotica story he was reading: a delightful ditty about a cuckolded husband who lights his own house on fire so he can burn his wife and her lovers to death.

"Burn the Bitch!" I shouted, not just because of the subject matter of the story, but because that seems to be the nickname for that sub-genre of erotic literature, also known as BTB for short.

(To be fair, "burn" isn't usually meant literally. I'd caught my husband the prior week reading one about a man who somehow contrived to have his skank whore wife eaten alive by his pet cats. And to be fairer still, sometimes the wife doesn't even die, but survives broke, homeless and alone, tortured by regret and by the knowledge that her jilted ex-husband has upgraded and re-married, and is living happily ever after.)

Mike, my husband, panicked briefly at being caught in the act. He slammed his laptop shut; his facial expression was a comic mix of embarrassment and indignation.

"These stories are good," he informed me. "I like reading them."

"If you're logging onto an erotic literature site," I replied, "why not at least read something erotic? Most of those revenge porn stories don't even have sex scenes in them, just evil skanks getting what they deserve at the hands of the wonderful men who once loved them."

"You don't know anything about this. People write these stories because wives cheat all the time and the courts reward their bullshit with alimony and half the assets."

I literally laughed at him.

"Men are more than half again as likely to cheat as women," I informed him. "The most commonly accepted numbers are that 20% of husbands cheat, compared to 13% of wives. And divorce laws and courts are designed to protect women, who put aside their careers to raise children, from being tossed out on the street with their kids when the husband decides to 'upgrade' to a younger, hotter woman. Your taxes would be a lot higher if the Government had to provide housing and food for all those homeless mothers and children. Or had to cart away all the dead bodies if you just let them starve."

"Most of the guys who write these stories, and read them, actually got screwed over by cheating wives and the crooked system," he asserted.

"The guys who write these stories have their MAGA hats on too tight," I countered. "It cuts off the blood flow to the penis, so that's why their wives cheat on them."

"Cut that shit. I voted for Trump and so did most of our friends."

"Yes, and thank you for not wearing the MAGA hat all the time. It seems to be only impairing your brain. Your dick still works. Intermittently, at least."

"Have fun at yoga," he concluded, gesturing at my sexy little athletic outfit. "At your advanced age, your stiff old hips need all the stretching they can get."

"At least I have something that gets stiff," I retorted.

He ignored my last comment, turned his back on me, and re-opened his laptop. He even angled it toward me a little, demonstrating that he could read his toxic revenge porn if he damn well wanted.

We weren't really angry. We had arguments like this on occasion, and as far as I could tell, he enjoyed them as much as I did. And they added some spice to an increasingly bland marriage.

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Ahhh....yoga! The second-best part of my life. I was going to class at least four days a week now, usually five. I had long since graduated to the most advanced classes at the two studios I frequented. One of them was talking to me about hiring on as a part-time instructor. At the ripe young age of 43, with both kids off in college, I was taking full advantage of my newly acquired freedom to sculpt my body into the healthiest, strongest, sexiest condition of my life.

Not that Hubby cared, or even noticed. Stiff old hips my ass.

It was an exhausting, hardcore session. Well, for the other students. I breezed through it, breaking a light sweat and feeling invigorated and radiant when it ended.

"My God, Courtney," gushed Meisha, the instructor, "you are such a beast!" She was a gorgeous mid-twenties Asian girl, with a perfect body that was liberally decorated with tattoos of dragons, birds and flowers. Meisha had made it clear, without saying it, that she wanted me as a lover. I was still thinking about it.

"Thanks, gorgeous," I replied. Our bodies came together in a brief but delightful embrace.

I stopped in the restroom on the way out, then eyed myself in the full-length mirror. Gazing back was a slender, long-limbed brunette who looked ten years younger than her real age. My boobs, still firm despite being a bit oversized (34D) for my thin frame, looked sensational when my nipples were this erect. Almond eyes and full lips showed off the Middle Eastern half of my genes. My olive skin had a tinge of post-exertion pink, and there was still a light sheen of perspiration.

I snapped a photo with my phone and sent it to my dear friend Marcus. Did I mention yoga is the second-best thing in my life? Marcus is currently holding steady at #1 (Hubby is at #14, right behind the new running shoes I just bought, but ahead of peach yogurt).

- Come over, Marcus texted, about 1.8 seconds later.

- And don't shower, he added a second later.

Marcus' condo was a 15-minute drive away, in a part of town where nobody would recognize me. As I strolled through the lobby of his building in my yoga shorts and sports bra, a foursome of middle-aged but fit men in tennis clothes eyeballed me like I was steak. I gave them a flirty smile, but they quickly looked away as Marcus approached me and gave me a massive hug.

Marcus stands about 6'3", with long, muscular legs, narrow hips, and absolutely momentous chest and shoulders. His entire body looks chiseled out of obsidian, especially his high cheekbones and hooded eyes. His warm smile revealed a set of brilliant white teeth.

As we walked toward the elevator, I felt the tennis quartet watching the skintight yoga shorts hug my bubble butt, before Marcus' huge hand entirely covered said butt.

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In the elevator, my giant ebony lover engulfed me with his big, powerful body and muscular arms. My breasts, especially my nipples, rejoiced at the feel of his muscles through his thin t-shirt. His hands were everywhere: my back, my waist, my thighs, my hips, my ass. His nose was everywhere as well. His "no shower" directive was driven by a lusty desire for my natural scent, which I suppose rose to the level of fetish.

In contrast, he smelled as fresh and clean as the morning dew. He was as obsessed with his own cleanliness as he was with my...dirtiness? Not that I minded; I got more man-stink than I needed from Hubby, who had a habit of coming home sweat-drenched from his evening workouts, but not showering until the next morning.

We stumbled out into the hallway as the elevator door opened, laughing and groping each other like college kids (Marcus is actually eleven years younger than me at 32). A pretty blonde coming out of her apartment gave us a mock glare.

"Settle down, kids," she grinned.

"Hi Elena," Marcus and I stereo'd. He fumbled for his key while I groped his granite-hard ass.

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Marcus had me on his couch and we were making out like crazy. He lifted my sports bra over my breasts, then all the way off. His lips, tongue and teeth were creating intense ecstasy for my nipples. Oh dear lord, I thought I was going to orgasm just from that. Then he mouthfucked me all the way down my chest and belly. I moaned in utter bliss. I'd already kicked off my workout shoes and ankle socks, so he had an easy time peeling off my yoga shorts and thong.

And then he really went wild on my drenched pussy. Marcus, for all his other wonderful attributes, is a world-class cunnilinguist. He spread my thighs, scooped his hands under my ass and lifted my vajayjay to his lips like a bowl of sex. He began by teasing me with little naughty thigh kisses and loving licks through my thick bush.

(I had grown the bush out at Marcus' request. My husband didn't even notice for awhile, then one day asked me why I didn't keep it shaved like "everyone else." I shut him up by asking him how many other vaginas he'd actually seen. "It might be a sample size issue," I said. "I think you should go look at some more pussies.")

Finally, Marcus' talented tongue teased and titillated, tracing my treasures. He went deep down into my gash for awhile, reaching my liquid center, then attacked my clit until I rewarded him with two gushing orgasms that he lapped up like a hungry kitten.

Then it was my turn to disrobe him (he liked going down on me while fully dressed, another odd but pleasant kink). He wore a clean, white tank top that I stripped away before kissing his midnight-black pectorals. He kicked off his own sandals, then I unbuckled his knee-length khaki shirts and pulled them down with his boxers. His enormous hardon sprang out.

Now, it is indeed enormous, but I'm not going to exaggerate the BBC mystique. Marcus claimed to have a "10- or 11-inch cock" when fully hard, but one night we measured it just for kicks, and it turned out to be a mere 9 and 3/4 inches (he still claims I caught him on a bad day). In terms of girth, he's not as thick as a coke can. More like a coke bottle (the thick end). And his balls aren't as big as apples. More like...small apples.

Anyway, his cock is the biggest I've ever experienced, and I'm a bit of a size queen.

We embraced, reveling in each other's nudity. His warm, muscular body felt heavenly. Looking into his bedroom mirror, I smiled at the beautiful contrast of our skin tones. His monster cock nestled against me, throbbing and rock solid and smearing my tummy with his precum.

He was ready for me.

Another of Marcus' kinks, one that I share fervently, is a desire for hard, rough sex. Lusty and violent, with hints of nonconsensual play. And Marcus, who'd been on a business trip and hadn't seen me in two weeks, was in a MOOD.

He shoved me hard onto the bed, then leaped on top of me, pinning me on my back. He was trying to get his cock lined up for a brutal entrance, but I teased him by wiggling my hips and squirming around, foiling his aim.

"Please, no," I moaned, "I'm a MARRIED WOMAN!" That did it; he roared like a lion, got my body locked down and under his control, my slender thighs spread wide, completely at his mercy. His cock's tip was at my entrance, and....

...OHHHHHHH...

He thrust powerfully into me, literally ripping through most of my resistance. I cried out in delicious pain, then he backed out and launched another missile strike. My pussy was so agonizingly tight, and his cock so huge and hard, it took four violent thrusts to get him all the way in. He took a moment to enjoy his early victory, then went to work.

He's so big and powerful and strong that I feel completely overwhelmed by him, and that's a feeling I've become addicted to. The intensity of the pleasure is beyond anything I've experienced. The brutal piston that is his cock will keep pounding me until he's done, and I have no say in the matter. And I fucking LOVE that!

I let him have me bare. That takes us to the highest possible level of ecstasy. It feels wild and primitive and natural, while at the same time being risky and daring and taboo. No, I'm not on the pill. I'm not likely to conceive at my age, but the possibility that I COULD just adds to the thrill of the illicit act.

His thunderous, bruising assault made me cum early and often. My body tingled, shivered, stiffened and climaxed with joyful bliss, and he just kept smashing me. I came again, then again, and I felt like I was near the limits of my endurance. He just kept going, bruising me in tender hidden parts of me that no one but him had reached before.

Finally, he was gasping for breath and growling, and his rhythm became choppier, and then he gave me his deepest, hardest thrust, held himself deep inside me, and erupted.

"Erupted" is the right word. His cum entered me hot as lava, so warm it almost felt scalding. It pulsed into me at high pressure, and it filled me so fast I almost felt like it was coming up through my throat. The sensation of his orgasms is so spectacular that he always pushes me to another climax, no matter how many I've already had, no matter how exhausted I may be. So I came with him, mixing my orgasmic fluids with his in a delicious mess deep inside me.

Like many black men, Marcus recovers quickly. After a brief rest, I sucked him to hardness again, then straddled him and mounted his gorgeous pole. I rode him hard and fantasized that I was punishing him for his earlier brutal conquest of my body. I enjoyed being on top, not because I needed to be in control, but so his big, strong hands could freely roam my body. He loved gripping my hips and waist, spanking me, and of course grabbing and squeezing my breasts. He always gave special attention to my nipples, and he was biting and pinching them painfully when I came for him again.

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Later, we were sharing a joint in his bed when my phone chimed. It was my husband, Mike.

"Hi sweetie," I answered cheerfully. Marcus watched me intently.

"Not coming home for dinner?" he asked.

"No. I told you earlier this week I was going out tonight." That was a lie, but he never remembered things like that, so he'd believe me.

"Oh, right. Okay. Ummm..where are you?"

"With Marcus."

"Oh. What are you doing with him?"

"We just finished fucking, we're heading out for dinner soon." Marcus' eyes widened in surprise, and Mike was silent for a few seconds.

"Very funny," he growled. "Don't be a fucking smartass."

"Sorry, sweetie," I giggled. "I'm having dinner with Marcus. He's trying to recruit me. I told you, remember?" That part was true; Marcus was VP of Marketing for a big tech company and wanted me to head up their social media campaign.

"Fine," said Mike. "See you later."

Marcus was quiet for a few minutes after that. He had something on his mind, and I gave him time to assemble his thoughts.

"You should be careful," he said at last. "Have you thought through what happens if he finds out about us?"

"Then we probably get divorced," I answered. "Not the end of the world. We're kind of leading separate lives already."

"Why don't you leave him if you're unhappy?"

"It hardly seems like it's worth the effort. I'm not unhappy, I'm just..." I trailed off. That was exactly the right description for my marriage: just...

"But what if he blindsides you," Marcus continued. "Takes all the assets, hides them, then goes to Brazil or someplace, and it's too late."

"It doesn't really work that way," I said.

*I've heard stories."

"You've READ stories," I answered. "On erotic fiction sites." His silence told me I was probably right, but he still seemed uneasy.

"Look," I said, "the biggest asset we have is the house, and it's in a trust. He can't sell it without approval of the trustees, and I'm the other trustee. He can't sell his business without shareholder approval, and I'm the other shareholder. Then there's about half a million in stock I own from a startup where I worked that went public. His name's not even on that account. He'd get half of it, but he can't just steal it."

"So it sounds like a happy ending for you either way," he said.

"Happy ending? Definitely not. The BTB crowd has a tradition of writing their own alternate endings and epilogues where The Bitch Gets What She Deserves. I'm sure they have some horrific justice planned for me..."

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***EPILOGUE ALERT***EPILOGUE ALERT***

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As much as I appreciate the effort many of you put into writing alternate endings and epilogues, it seems like an imposition on you. So I asked my good friend ANONYMOUS to put something together on your behalf. Take it away, NONY...

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EPILOGUE

From an industrial park half a mile away, Mike watched the video feed from the hidden infrared camera in Marcus' bedroom. His slut wife and Marcus slept soundly in the black bull's bed, unaware they were under surveillance.

"I know the truth can be a hard pill to swallow," said Buzz, putting a supportive hand on Mike's shoulder. "This must be tearing you apart right now."

Buzz wasn't the man's real name, just his call sign. Like the other four men in the unit he commanded, Buzz wore an all-black commando uniform with BTB-SF (Burn the Bitch-Special Forces) stitched on his upper left chest.

And the truth was, Mike wasn't THAT broken up about it. When Buzz first approached him and told him his "whore wife" was cheating on him, he wasn't sure he even wanted to bother with a divorce. Why give all that money to the parasite attorneys, who were as much of a problem as the corrupt judges?

But Buzz offered a better solution: scorched earth. Literally.

While Mike had initially agreed to bring in the BTB specialists, he was now (two days later) having second thoughts.

"Isn't all this maybe a little...extreme?" he asked. "I can just take my half and move on." Buzz shook his head sadly.

"That's not you speaking, my friend," he said in his gravelly voice. "That's the woke liberal snowflake deep state fake media that's been coddling you and brainwashing you all your life. It's time to man up and strike back."

"Fair point," said Mike. "But do we really have to blow up his condo? If anything goes wrong...there must be like two hundred innocent people in the building."

"First of all," Buzz said, ticking the points off on his gloved fingers, "it's only 186. Second, nobody's innocent; any one of those people could have DONE THEIR OWN RESEARCH, seen what was happening, and reached out to let you know your wife is a cheating whore. And finally...minor collateral casualties are always expected in multi-unit residential strikes, but they're likely to fall within acceptable mission parameters."

"Umm...okay...But why use incendiaries? Why not just shoot them?"

Everyone else in the room stopped what they were doing, and the room fell silent as they stared at Mike.

"Tell him," said Buzz.

"BITCH NEEDS TO BURN!" the other four operatives roared in unison. In the cramped storage space, their deafening battle cry was frightening and fierce.

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A few minutes later, Buzz let out a shrill whistle and his black-clad team gathered around.

"Final review," he barked. "Wheels, you're on Extraction. At 0115 hours you'll be...?"

"Extraction Point Charlie, rear loading dock. Plan B is Bravo Point, due east of tennis courts."

"Excellent. Shark?"

"Breaching and holding Target Entrance."

"Good. Boomer?"

"Incendiaries, with you. Everything go boom."

"Perfect. Snipes?"

"Exterior Point 2. Pick off either Target if they get loose."

"Revision," said Buzz. "I want double coverage. You'll be at 1."

"Who's got 3?" asked Snipes. Buzz turned toward Mike, holding an AK-47 and handing it to him.

"Mike's gonna pitch in," said Buzz. "Mike, once the fire starts, you'll be at the end of the hallway east of the Target location. If your whore wife or the black asshole get out somehow...shoot em. Got it?"

"Got it."

"You've handled an AK before, right?"

"Of course," Mike said indignantly. "I'm a Republican."

"Okay then," said Buzz. "It's Go Time!"