Daniel's life was a fucking rollercoaster, and he loved every goddamn second of it. He'd clawed his way up in the tech world, built a company that raked in cash, and bought a modest little house--beige, boring, perfect for his good-girl wife, Sarah, and their two brats. Two vans sat in the driveway: one for schlepping the kids, the other a cum-stained relic of his party days, reeking of cheap whiskey and cheaper pussy. Daniel was a king--loyal husband when it suited him, but a coke-snorting, whore-fucking beast when the sun went down. Business was good, and so was the high life. He'd party with his tech buddies and rivals, snorting lines off glass tables, banging sluts in bathroom stalls while Sarah stayed home, playing perfect mommy.
Sarah was the saint to his sinner. A sexy fucking milf at thirty-eight--chestnut hair messy from chasing kids, hazel eyes that could suck you in, and a body that'd make you drool: tits still perky, ass thick from squats she never did. She'd been a worker bee, slaving at some shitty office job in tight skirts and blouses that hugged her curves, loyal as hell to Daniel despite knowing he was a cokehead prick. She'd seen the red eyes, the twitchy dick, the lipstick smears on his collar from whores he'd fucked at those "networking events." She didn't bitch about it--she loved his dumb ass too much. Some nights, she'd even tag along, sipping cocktails in her modest little dresses while he groped strangers, then driving his drunk ass home in the van. They'd get wasted together too--weekends of vodka and loud music, her pussy wet from dancing, his cock hard from the buzz.
It all flipped one sticky-ass night when Sarah got on his case--nagging about the coke, the cash he blew, the cum he left on other bitches. Daniel was half-sloshed and fucking done. "Get in the van, we're going out," he growled, dragging her to a club. She threw on a black dress that hugged her fat ass, strappy heels clicking, silver necklace dangling between her tits. The place was a sweaty shithole--neon lights, pounding bass, bodies grinding. Daniel shoved shots down her throat 'til her eyes glazed, then yanked her close, his cock stiff against her hip. "Try this, you nagging cunt," he sneered, shoving a baggie of coke in her face. She balked--good-girl Sarah didn't do that shit--but he kept pushing. "Snort it, and maybe you'll shut the fuck up." Three shots deep, she caved, snorting a fat line off his key. Her head snapped back, eyes wide, pussy tingling as the high hit. She was hooked, and he fucking loved it.
Daniel didn't clock how deep she fell. He was too busy railing whores and snorting mountains of blow. Sarah, though, found her own dealer--some scumbag named Rico--and started sneaking lines at work, her prim skirts hiding the slut she was becoming. She'd lock her office door, hike up her blouse, and snort off her desk, rubbing her clit through her panties as the rush hit. Got caught on camera one day--bent over, nose white, skirt around her thighs--and they fired her ass without a word. She didn't tell Daniel. Let him think she was home, cooking and wiping snotty noses. Instead, she'd slip into skintight jeans and a top that barely held her tits, snorting lines off the kitchen counter while the kids were at school, her cunt dripping from the thrill.
Money dried up fast. She borrowed from neighbors, spinning bullshit about bills, but Daniel was too coked out to notice. Weekends, they'd hit the clubs--her in a leather skirt that showed her ass cheeks, fishnets ripping, him in a wrinkled suit, cock bulging. They'd get trashed, snort blow in the bathroom, then fuck in the van--her screaming as he pounded her sloppy pussy, his balls slapping her ass, coke making every thrust electric. She'd claw his back, cum dripping down her thighs, and he'd think she was still his.
But Sarah was a junkie now, and junkies need cash. One night, Daniel grabbed her in bed, horny as fuck, his hands ripping at her red silk cami--some slutty thing she'd started wearing with lace panties that begged for dick. She shoved him off, muttering about a headache. He squinted in the dark--love bites all over her neck, her tits, her thighs. "What the fuck's that?" he barked. "Mosquito bites, asshole," she snapped, yanking the blanket up. "Fleas or some shit." He laughed, smacking her ass. "Better fumigate that pussy, babe." She smirked, and he let it slide, too high to give a fuck.
Then his buddy Mark dropped the bomb at a party. "Yo, you hear about Sarah and Tommy?" Daniel's buzz soured. Tommy--Mark's sleazy pal, all ink and bad breath. "What the fuck you mean?" Mark shrugged, nervous. "Saw 'em together, man. Like, balls-deep together at some shithole bar." Daniel snorted, punching Mark's arm. "Fuck off, she's home with the kids." But doubt gnawed at him.
That night, he watched her. She strutted in a black dress slit to her cunt, lips red as sin, eyes fucked-up from a fresh line. They danced, her ass grinding his cock, then hit the bathroom for more blow. Back home, he dragged her upstairs, kids asleep, and threw her on the bed. "You're my fucking slut, right?" he snarled, ripping her dress off, her tits bouncing free. She nodded, panting, but her eyes lied--shifty, slutty. He didn't give a shit. He spread her legs, her pussy glistening, and rammed his cock in--hard, deep, no mercy. She screamed, "Fuck, Daniel!" as he pounded her, balls slapping her ass, her nails tearing his skin. The coke made his dick a jackhammer, her cunt clenching like a vice. "Take it, you bitch," he grunted, flipping her over, slamming her face-down, ass up. She moaned like a whore, pussy squirting as he fucked her raw, cum shooting deep when he blew his load. She collapsed, gasping, his jizz leaking out, but he saw it--those bites again, fresh and mocking.
