Saturday mornings are for clarity. While my wife sleeps in the other room, I'm out here chasing the high that used to be ours. There's a primal satisfaction in making a woman lose her fucking mind on my cock, in watching her eyes roll back as I push her past her limit. I love the sound of a gasp when I grab a handful of hair and tell her exactly how she's going to take every last inch. It's control. It's worship. It's the only time my own head gets quiet. But that post-fuck clarity hits different when you drive home to the one person you're actually trying to hurt. The game is exhausting. Maybe today I just want my wife to look at me like I'm the only man who's ever made her scream.