Cuckold Fantasy My Wife As The Main Subject

trying some AI tools

My wife and my cuckold fantasy the main theme - posting anything good produced
wannabe

The hotel suite was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below and the rhythmic creak of the king-size bed. Golden light from the bedside lamps spilled across the white sheets, catching every bead of sweat on Marcy's skin as she held herself on hands and knees.
She was breathing in short, sharp gasps, her shoulder-length brown hair hanging in damp strands that stuck to her flushed cheeks and neck. At 57, her body still carried the soft, lived-in beauty of a woman who'd raised two ******** and kept herself fit through sheer will—curves that had softened over time but never surrendered their shape. Her small 34B breasts swayed gently with each thrust, nipples dark and tight against her fair skin. The trimmed patch of dark hair above her clit glistened, slick with her own arousal and the bull's.
The older black man behind her moved with deliberate power. Late fifties, early sixties perhaps—salt-and-pepper hair cropped close, thick silver beard framing a strong jaw. His body was built like someone who'd spent decades lifting, not for vanity, but because strength was simply who he was. Dark skin gleamed under the lamps, muscles rolling under a layer of mature thickness as he gripped her hips. His large hands—steady, unhurried—dug into the softer flesh above her waist, pulling her back onto him with every slow, deep stroke. The contrast was stark: his dark skin against her lighter tone, his controlled strength against her yielding surrender.
Marcy's eyes fluttered half-shut, lips parted in a low, continuous moan that rose and fell with his rhythm. She wasn't performing. She was lost in it—the stretch, the heat, the way her body opened for him again and again.
In the shadowed corner near the door, Rob stood naked, hands at his sides, unmoving.
He was lean—runner's build, cyclist's legs, the kind of fitness that came from early-morning miles rather than heavy iron. At 60, his short graying brown hair was still thick enough to show the boy he'd once been, but the lines around his warm brown eyes and the slight softening at his middle spoke of decades lived. The metal chastity cage glinted faintly under the lamp light, straining visibly against his slim thighs. His knuckles were white where his fingers curled into loose fists, but he didn't speak. Didn't move closer. Just watched.
His expression was quiet awe mixed with something deeper—acceptance, perhaps love, perhaps the strange peace that comes from finally seeing the truth of desire laid bare. Marcy's moans climbed again, higher, more desperate. The bull leaned forward slightly, one hand sliding up her spine to cradle the back of her neck, the other still locked on her hip. He didn't speak either. He didn't need to.
The room smelled of sex, of sweat, of the faint citrus of Marcy's lotion and the deeper musk of the man claiming her. The city lights blurred beyond the window, irrelevant.
Marcy's fingers tightened in the sheets once more, her back bowing sharper, toes curling against the mattress. A single, broken cry escaped her lips as the wave finally broke.
Rob exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling.
He never looked away.
The lamps stayed on. The sheets stayed tangled. And the night stretched on.
wannabe

In front of her stood the older black man—late fifties, early sixties, silver threaded through his close-cropped hair, powerful build carrying the quiet authority of decades lived fully. His dark skin gleamed under the light, muscles shifting smoothly beneath as he held her head with both large hands. Not rough. Not gentle either. Controlled. Possessive. His larger-than-average cock slid deep into her mouth, stretching her lips wide, the head disappearing past her tongue with each slow, deliberate thrust. Saliva dripped in thick strings from the corners of her mouth, trailing down her chin and onto her breasts. Her brown eyes—half-lidded, glassy—looked up at him in total surrender, tears of effort gathering at the corners.
She wasn't fighting it. She wasn't performing for anyone. She was simply taking him—deep, steady, letting her throat open around him as he guided her rhythm.
wannabe

In front of her stood the older black man—late fifties, early sixties—his salt-and-pepper hair cropped close, powerful silver-fox build gleaming under the light. His large dark hands cradled the back of her head with steady control, fingers threaded through her hair as he guided her forward. His larger-than-average cock was buried deep in her throat, stretching her lips wide, the thick shaft disappearing past her tongue until her nose pressed firmly into the coarse, dark pubic hair at his base. Saliva overflowed from the corners of her mouth in thick, glistening strings, dripping in slow rivulets down her chin and onto her breasts. Her brown eyes were glassy, watering with the effort, mascara smudged in thin streaks as she gagged softly around his girth—throat bulging visibly with each controlled thrust, her body trembling but yielding completely.
wannabe

I'm loving this thread! Great work ❤️😈 x

CUCKING AWESOME!!!!

appreciate the shout out guys -- next pics and story line

Mike makes her kneel on the scratchy hotel carpet while Rob films on his phone—another one of his requests. "Count each item," Mike orders, laying out rope, the red ball gag, lube, and a thick black plug on the dresser. Marcy's voice wavers as she lists them, knowing what each will be used for. When she hesitates at the plug, Mike grips her chin. "Your husband's been fantasizing about this for *years*," he growls. Rob's breath is audible behind the camera. Mike smirks. "Now ask nicely for it." Her training begins
wannabe

Mike the bull warming her up before the real thing
wannabe

being put through her paces her training is a full go
wannabe

Marcy stood in front of the full-length mirror in the hotel suite, heart hammering. The black lace lingerie set Marcus had texted her to wear clung to her curves like a second skin—shelf bra pushing her full breasts up and out, nipples already stiff against the sheer fabric, matching thong barely covering anything, garters and thigh-highs framing her legs. She'd added the red heels he liked, the ones that made her ass pop when she walked. Her makeup was bolder than usual: smoky eyes, glossy red lips, hair loose and wild the way he preferred. She looked like sin. She felt like sin.
Marcus had been clear in his instructions earlier that week:
"Tonight you're not Rob's wife. You're my slut. You walk in, you drop to your knees, you beg for my cock. No hesitation. No shame. You take everything I give you. Safe word is 'mercy.' Aftercare is non-negotiable. You good?"
She'd texted back one word:
"Yes, Sir."
Now she was here—hotel room door unlocked, lights low, Marcus waiting on the leather armchair in the corner. Six-foot-four, dark skin gleaming under the lamp, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide the thick outline of his cock. He was stroking himself lazily through the fabric, eyes locked on her the moment she stepped out of the bathroom.
"On your knees, Marcy."
She dropped instantly—carpet soft under her knees, hands resting on her thighs, palms up, the way he'd taught her. Her breath came fast, shallow. She could already feel the wetness pooling between her legs, the thong useless.
Marcus stood slowly, walked over, towered above her. He tilted her chin up with two fingers.
"Look at you," he rumbled, voice deep and smooth. "Conservative little wife by day... my eager Black-owned slut by night. Rob knows you're here?"
"Yes, Sir," she whispered. "He's home... waiting. Locked in his cage."
Marcus smiled—slow, predatory. "Good girl. You told him what I'm going to do to you tonight?"
She swallowed. "Yes, Sir. Everything."
He unzipped the briefs, pulled out his cock—thick, heavy, already half-hard, veins prominent, head glistening. Nine inches of dark, girthy perfection. Marcy's mouth watered. She'd never taken anything that big before him.
"Beg," he said simply.
Her voice trembled with need and shame.
"Please, Sir... let me worship your big Black cock. I've been thinking about it all week. My pussy's so wet for you. I need to taste you. Please use my mouth, Sir."
Marcus gripped the base, tapped the head against her glossy lips.
"Open."
She did—wide, tongue out, eyes locked on his.
He slid in slowly at first, letting her adjust to the girth, then deeper—past her tongue, into her throat. She gagged softly, eyes watering, but didn't pull back. He held her head, fucked her mouth in long, steady strokes, letting her drool run down her chin onto her tits.
"Good slut," he growled. "Look at ************* on Black cock while your husband sits at home in a cage. You love being my dirty little secret."
She moaned around him—vibrating down his shaft—her hands still obediently on her thighs. He fucked her throat harder, faster, until tears streamed down her cheeks and mascara ran in black streaks.
"Hands behind your back," he ordered.
She complied instantly.
He pulled out, slapped his wet cock across her face—left cheek, right cheek, lips—then pushed back in, holding her nose to his pubes until she gagged hard, throat convulsing around him.
"Take it all, Marcy. Every inch. Show me how much you need this."
He face-fucked her until she was a drooling, gasping mess—then pulled out, stroked himself fast, and came across her face—thick ropes painting her cheeks, lips, chin, dripping onto her exposed tits.
She stayed on her knees, panting, cum dripping, eyes glassy.
Marcus stepped back, admired his work.
"Stand."
She rose on shaky legs.
He walked behind her, unzipped the back of the lace bra, let it fall. Then slid the thong down her thighs, leaving her in nothing but garters, stockings, and heels.
"On the bed. Face down, ass up."
She obeyed—kneeling on the king-size bed, face pressed to the sheets, ass high, pussy dripping down her thighs.
Marcus grabbed the lube from the nightstand, poured it generously over her ass, then worked two thick fingers inside her tight hole—slow, stretching, preparing.
"You ever take it here for Rob?" he asked, voice low.
"No, Sir," she whimpered. "Never."
"Good. First time is mine."
He added a third finger—scissoring, twisting—making her moan into the pillow. She was shaking, pushing back against his hand despite herself.
When she was loose and whimpering, he pulled out, coated his cock in lube, and pressed the thick head against her ass.
"Beg for it," he commanded.
"Please, Sir... please fuck my ass. Take my virgin ass. Make me your anal slut. I need your big Black cock inside me."
He pushed in—slow, relentless—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt. Marcy cried out—pain and pleasure mixing—body trembling.
"Fuck... so big... so full..."
He started slow—long, deep strokes—letting her adjust. Then harder. Faster. Hands gripping her hips, pulling her back onto him.
"Tell me who owns this ass," he growled.
"You do, Sir! You own my ass! You own me!"
He fucked her harder—slamming deep, balls slapping her pussy—reaching around to rub her clit in fast circles.
"Cum for me, Marcy. Cum with my cock in your ass while your husband waits at home in a cage."
wannabe

macman62
7. #4. Dream cock🤪
D

cpl fails add ins
wannabe

until the next tine
wannabe

feel free to post some ideas on story lines or things you would like to see and I'll try to generate the images and a deeper narrative around the images
wannabe

macman62

Just wanted to say — solid approach.

Using AI tools as a way to explore and develop a long-standing fantasy is interesting, especially when the focus is on quality output, not just quantity.

Appreciate you sharing the results and keeping the thread centered on what actually works.