Kate Upton Opens Her Marriage

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

Kate Upton Opens Her Marriage

Kate Upton becomes Kate Uptonogood, opening her marriage—and other things—to strange men.

tags: cheating, cuckoldry, humiliation, large breasts, oral, anal, titfuck, impregnation, interracial, BBC

“Every open relationship has the person whose idea it was, and the person who cries themselves to sleep at night…”—@tyler01010101 (quote often misattributed to Bill Burr)

AN: In real life K-to-tha-U has a kid. In this story she doesn’t. I wrote this story in a single session and then edited it the day after, apologies if it’s a bit rough. The prose had a rebarbative quality that I wanted to preserve. - Juliette

* * *



“Baby…I’ve been thinking…” Kate Upton had a smile like a flamethrower. When she used it, resistance became ash. “…What are your thoughts about an open marriage?”

Justin Verlander sagged against the pink velour loveseat. Gut punch. He’d suspected a bombshell would drop in their next marriage counseling session. He hadn’t expected it to be thermonuclear.

“An open marriage? I dunno, babe… Seems kinda gross.”

Dr Sonia Gluckstein, their therapist, pursed lips and scribbled notes. Scritch-scratch.

“It ‘seems kinda gross.’ Interesting reaction, Justin. It’s outside your comfort zone. It challenges you.” Her hand dropped to the armrest of the couch. Acrylic nails drummed a takk-takk rhythm on the upholstery, allegro fast, before she spoke. “Justin, we need to hold space with your wife’s idea.”

Justin squirmed miserably. He hated couples’ therapy so damn much. We need to hold space. Who fucking talks like that?

Therapy had been Kate’s idea. She’d said it would fix their marriage. It was also Kate’s idea that their marriage was broken in the first place.

Why, exactly, are we doing this? Justin had asked himself that question on their first session with Dr Gluckstein, and was still asking it on their twentieth. Our marriage is fine. Isn’t it? Yeah, we’ve had our moments. Like that time I caught her in a hotel suite with two of the Astros. And that weird monkey photoshoot thing she still won’t give me a straight answer about. But we’re going okay now, I think? Even if we’re not intimate as often as we used to be.

But Kate had disagreed.

And as anyone who’d seen her luscious bra-overflowing rack would aver, Kate’s vote counted for two.

* * *

Justin had felt like a cow kicked down a slaughter chute the moment he walked into the clinic.

The place was terrifyingly, oppressively feminine. The wallpaper was so malevolently pink it almost infected his eyes with bacterial vaginosis. The reception area was littered with magazines, all emblazoned with merciless #girlboss scowls and words like SLAY and FIERCE and QUEEN. The soundsystem played a bowel-clenching mix of Enya, Beyonce, Taylor Swift, and that godawful Hillary Clinton Fight song.

Everything seemed like a statement: this was a woman’s territory. As a man, he was an outsider. At worst, an enemy—a pestilence to be orbitally nuked from existence.

The sessions were worse.

Kate and the therapist had instantly bonded, becoming thick as thieves. They spent every session sitting side by side on the double loveseat, arrayed against him, chatting and laughing and giggling. Acting like two girlfriends swapping Kardashian goss over spicy margs instead of a therapist and a client. They acted like he wasn’t in the room, or was too stupid to understand them. Often, he felt he was.

She ate and left no crumbs.

It’s giving pick-me.

That’s beige flag, sis.

What are they saying? Justin wondered if women were hard at work, creating a secret cipher language that males could not penetrate. He’d had a growing suspicion that a plot was afoot. But an open marriage? Seriously?

“I’m just not sure I want an open marriage…” Justin held out his hands, and faced his wife. “Babe, this is all so sudden…”

“It’s something Kate and I discussed in one of the sessions you were unable to attend.” Dr Gluckstein’s words carried a point-making edge. She’s doing more work than you are, Justin. “Increasingly, your wife feels that her marriage lacks danger. Excitement. That’s not said in a spirit of judgment. It happens to everyone. We find a rut, and we settle into it. But it’s also a problem that needs to be addressed.”

Kate reached over, and squeezed his hand affectionately. She beamed her lethally effective smile, and things went warm and gooey-melty inside him.

“Justin, I’m a woman with a lot of love,” she squirted extra napalm into her flamethrower smile. “You won’t go short if I…share that love with other people.”

Justin felt crushed. “But I thought the point of a marriage is that you don’t share your love with other people!”

“Yes, that’s a perspective.” Dr Sonia freighted the word with contempt. A sexist, outdated perspective that only a troglodytic dinosaur would endorse, but a perspective nevertheless. “But imagine you had a child. You would love this child very much, no?”

“Of course.” Justin didn’t know where this was going.

“Imagine you had a second child. Would you love your first child only half as much as before?”

“No, I’d still love them the same.”

“Exactly. Love doesn’t diminish when you share it. It’s not a cake being cut into ever-smaller pieces. It grows! There’s a world where your wife sees other people and remains devotedly yours. Isn’t that incredible to think about? Do you think it might be our world?”

Kate kissed his cheek.

“Don’t sweat it, baby. You’d still be my number one. Me seeing some other people won’t change that. This isn’t about shrinking you. It’s about growing me.”

Something rolled over and died In Justin’s stomach.

* * *



They drove in silence to their palatial Beverly Hils McMansion. Gridlocked in traffic on Coldwater Canyon Avenue, Justin sighed in defeat.

“Fine,” he flung up his hands. “An open marriage. Let’s try it.”

“Great!” Kate beamed, delighted. She had such a dangerous goddamn smile. Red-red lips and white-white teeth and a tongue like a cliff for your heart to drive off. It made you want to keep saying yes and yes and yes to her forever, like a rat pressing a pellet lever, until she owned your soul, your Bentley, and your bank account.

Justin wondered if he’d only agreed so she’d smile at him, one more time.

If so, he’d gotten the raw end of the deal. The smile warmed her face for only a second. Then her gaze snapped down to the phone in her lap.

Her hands flashed over the touchscreen. Twin spiders spinning webs of texts.

“I’ll need to be dropped off at a bar. Rislow’s Dream at 351 Palm Avenue.”

“What for?” Justin asked.

“My date.” She didn’t look up when she said it.

Your date? His tongue felt like a dead slug, rotting in his mouth. “Kate, we’ve been in an open relationship for five seconds. How can you possibly have a date already?”

“Well, obviously…” her thumbs became blurs, machine-gunning out texts. “I arranged it ahead of time.”

“But…you didn’t know that I’d say yes.”

“Oh, I knew. Woman’s intuition!” She smirked, and kicked his ankle. “This is secretly what you want, too. You just don’t know it yet. Don’t look worried, babe! This will be a wonderful thing for us!”

Justin shrugged, and punched new co-ordinates into the car GPS. “If you say so.”

They drove for some time, heading for the bar.

“What does ‘a date’ mean, anyway?” Justin’s hands slipped on the wheel. “Are you gonna share a single plate of spaghetti by candlelight with this guy, and then suck up the final strand together until your lips touch in the middle or something?”

“Ha. No. We’ll chat. Get to know each other.”

Get to know each other. He shuddered, imagining a stranger’s hands clasping Kate’s enormous steam-pale breasts.

“It…won’t go any further than that, will it?”

“Into sex? Oh, of course not! I’d be too scared!” Kate giggled, leaned across, and whispered in his ear. “Baby, believe me, I’m just as anxious about this as you are. Excited, but anxious! We’re here, by the way.”

A bright neon bar emerged around a corner, stencilled against the setting fire of the sun. Justin double-parked so his wife could get out.

She clapped excitedly. “Oh, there he is! Gotta go! Love you, baby!”

She popped the car door open, and dashed at high speed toward the bar. Her ponderously heavy boobs cannonballed up and down as she ran, like massive Christmas hams bouncing in her dress.

Anxious and scared? Indeed, so much so that she’d forgotten to fasten the top two buttons of the blouse top.

Justin watched in high-strung misery as a man—silhouetted to a dark blade against the setting sun on the boardwalk—threw an arm over his wife’s shoulders, and escorted her inside.

Fuck.

Just…fuck.

He clenched the wheel. Clenched his teeth. Finally drove away, merging into traffic. He imagined Gomorrhean horrors happening to his wife inside that bar.

Stop being such a wuss. She says she’s not having sex with him. Can’t you trust your own wife?

The question plunged him into such a bleak and unstoppable rat-race of thought that he almost ran a red light. He stomped down on the brakes. The Mercedes-Benz SLS jolted, whiplashing back on its suspension.

Something went clink to his right.

He glanced, and saw a glint of gold in the cupholder.

Someone’s wedding band, shining its merciless 14-karat shine. Whose was it?

His ring was still on his finger.

* * *

That night, Justin played poker with some friends.

“So, where’s Kate the Great?” the field manager for the Kansas City Royals asked behind a fan of cards.

All of Justin’s poker buddies loved it when the lady of the manor plopped her fat funbags on the table. Kate Upton had the makings of nasty WSOP talent. Nobody ever looked at her face.

“She’s…having an early night.” Justin stared in despond at his four and nine.

As the turn was dealt, one of the men got out his phone, and giggled.

“An early night, huh? Your wife’s at a bar with some guy, bro. The photos are all over Instagram.”

“That’s her brother,” Justin said testily.

“You wanna double-check that story?” the smirk cut out into a grin. “He’s black.”

The man flipped his phone around. Justin flushed, and not in a good way.

Kate was in a dive bar. Neon glazed over her face in a sheen of poison candy. She was wide-eyed; excited; grinning from ear to ear. Snapping selfie after selfie, angling the phone down into her endless dark cleavage, sharing her evening out with six and a half million Instagram followers.

A black man had his arm slung possessively around Kate’s neck. Justin’s stomach plummeted.

A shaven head, a white polo with tribal tattoos marching out of the neckline, a dark teardrop under one eye. A diamond grill gleamed like ice beneath the curve of his upper lip.

The black dude’s cocksure stare pierced Justin’s heart from above his wife’s shoulder, as though the screen wasn’t there. This your chick, bro? The OG seemed to say. Sure doesn’t seem like it.

The table dissolved into gales of laughter. Justin fumed in frustration.

When he folded his hand, ten high, the jokes were predictable.

“Cheer up, bro. You’re not the only one playing the board tonight!”

“You’re an easy read. We already know you don’t have a queen in your hand!”

“Thanks, guys,” he mumbled, eyes down. “I really appreciate the morale boost.”

* * *



He waited in the foyer.

Waited for his wife.

Eleven o’clock. Twelve o’clock. Come on, where the fuck is she? No date takes this long, unless they’re…

She wasn’t returning his texts. The Instagram photos had stopped. Suggestive of her leaving the bar. Suggestive of other things, too. Some of them disquietening.

Then, at one o’clock, Kate staggered through the front door.

She was bobbling and lurching on her heels, as lit as a firecracker on July 4th. She giggled drunkenly as Justin rose to greet her.

“Hey, babe! How was your date?” He tried not to be angry. Gotta be a good husband. Gotta hold space for her.

Kate fell into his arms like a long fur coat. Her skin was flushed. Her breath stank of alcohol. He caught a whiff of cigarette smoke on her collar, and frowned. She’d never smoked in her life.

“It was wonderful. I feel alive. The most alive I’ve felt in years. I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

Ghostly insects seemed to tread upon his skin. That makes one of us.

“It’s so late,” he said. “What were you doing with that guy?”

“Talking!” She screwed up her face in disapproval. “Gosh!”

“For seven straight hours? That’s how long you talked?”

“Yes! We didn’t have sex yet, if that’s what you’re implying. What is this, anyway? My trial?”

“No, of course not.” He noticed how smeared her lipstick was. It was halfway up her cheek. “I was just worried about you. Wait, did you say ‘didn’t have sex yet?’ Does that mean you’re going to?”

She smiled a Mona Lisa smile. A woman’s smile: every secret locked behind it.

“I’m still figuring out what I want. I found him on this dating site recommended by Dr Gluckstein. It’s used by celebrities who wanna stay on the down-low. It’s awesome! There are so many cute guys there.”

He laughed. Tried to be a player.

“And a cute guy right here!” Grinning, determined to win her back, Justin started to put moves on Kate.

One arm slid around her back. Other hand clasping her golden braid to the nape of her neck, sweeping her lips toward his…

…he was batted aside.

“Baby, not tonight,” she said, smiling ruefully. “It’s so late.”

No shit. “Tomorrow, maybe?” Justin asked hopefully. He hadn’t gotten laid in weeks.

She pinched his cheek affectionately. “You’re on, loverboy.”

But her eyes were gazing past him. Through him. Despondency settled over him. She might be anticipating the morrow, but not because he was in it.

Then the loose button on Kate’s blouse dress came undone, and it slid down her collarbone. She yelped in panic, and pulled it back up to cover herself.

She had a hickey on her neck.

* * *

He hoped this would be the end.

She’ll go on a date or two, get whatever this is out of her system, and then we’re back to the usual-usual. Hopefully the version that includes sex once in a while.

Instead, it was very much the beginning.

There was another date on Wednesday. A third on Thursday. Three more over the weekend.

Justin obediently chauffeured his wife to upscale bars and downtown dives. Night after night, he watched her stagger out of the car on her $200 mules and slingbacks, dressed to the nines, huge white breasts almost spilling out of whatever piece of designer couture she’d shoehorned them into that evening…a stagger that usually ended in another man’s arms.

It was a different man each time.

She met men at bars, at photoshoots, at equestrian events. She met men on Dr Gluckstein’s dating app. She met them everywhere.

When you’re built like Katherine Elizabeth Upton, it’s a struggle not to drown in dick.

She was always out until very, very late. One o-clock. Two o’clock. Some nights, she didn’t come home at all. Justin just sat in the chair by the foyer until he finally nodded off to sleep, and when he woke up, she was back in the house.

He didn’t mind that. Better not to see her arrive, honestly.

Better not to see her drunk, smelling of strange smells, giggling compulsively, goaded by alcohol and mischief, bragging about how fun it had been, how thrilling, how exciting.

Kate loved this new wrinkle in their marriage. For some reason, she seemed to get off on telling him so at 2:00am.

Justin would have to nod and smile and say yes, babe and glad you had a nice evening. All the while noticing cologne-scent on her collar in a brand that he did not wear. Noticing marks on her skin that he had not made. Noticing bright horizons in her eyes that didn’t seem to include him. Noticing noticing noticing.

It was difficult to hold space for your wife, when you noticed so much.

Dr Gluckstein had assured him that love did not diminish when it was shared. He did not know if that was true. What he did know was that his wife had not had sex with him in an entire month. And not through lack of trying on his part, either. Whenever he tried to touch her, he got cold-shouldered. I’m tired. It’s late. I have a headache. I have a photoshoot tomorrow.

At night, as he lay beside his beautiful wife, ragingly horny and unfulfilled…he’d look across, and see the lambent glow of her phone pulse deathlight over her face, turning it into a green Halloween mask. A witch.

Texting. Texting. Texting.

Setting up dates. Meeting new men.

Free dopamine. Holla.

“I’m not sleeping with them,” she said one night, turning to his side of the bed. “You trust me, right?”

“Of course babe. I trust you.”

But she made a mistake one day.

She thought he wasn’t in the house. She undressed outside, and began suntanning in the nude at their Grecian-marbled pool. Justin saw the flash of bare skin outside, and went to take a look.

Kate lay on a towel, naked under the blazing sun.

Her gigantic tits were rolling off her torso and onto the tiles. His mouth watered at the sight. They looked as big as pontoon floats. He had to touch them.

But as his shadow fell on her, she squealed in shock, and hastily pulled a towel over herself.

Justin recoiled for reasons of his own. In the second before the towel went over her tits, he’d seen them up close.

Kate’s breasts were covered in bruises and bite-marks.

* * *

The next bombshell landed a week later.

I’m the vine she grows on. Justin desperately ran Dr Gluckstein’s slogans through his mind, trying to silence the anguished howl screaming from his basal ganglia. This isn’t about shrinking me. It’s about growing her.

He felt like a blasted-out building; roof gaping open to the sky.

Shattered.

Hollow.

Torn apart; his insides sown by the four winds.

I’m holding space for her emotions. He was coming to enjoy Dr Gluckstein’s therapy cliches. I’m doing the work. You could just chant them like a mantra, chant them all day, chant your brain cells away into a bright pink light of pure mystical meaninglessness. I’m sitting with my discomfort. The slogans killed thoughts. Killed them dead.

Right now, after that conversation, he wanted to never think again.

Honey, can I talk to you for a second? This open marriage of ours…I’ve decided I’m ready for the next stage of it.

Which was?

Kate was bringing one of her dates home.

And she would be fucking him.

* * *

Justin sweated. Glanced at the clock.

Kate’s beau was about to arrive.

Because the help was on leave, Kate worked her husband like a slavedriver—cleaning, scrubbing, sweeping, vacuuming. She seemed desperate to make a good impression. All her nerves were stropped sharp enough to bleed.

Then Justin heard tires crunch gravel. A car was pulling up outside.

His heart shriveled to a raisin as a fist banged on the door.

“OHMYGOD!” Kate charged to answer it, breasts half-flying out of her sundress, almost snapping a heel as she ran. She yanked open the door, squealing like a seal hyperventilating on helium. "KEVIN! Come in!’

Kevin stepped inside.

Justin blinked, seeing what appeared to be a wannabe white rapper cryonically frozen in the year 1999 and then flung in the microwave. The guy had frosted tips and mirrored shades and baggy JNCOs with a wallet chain and even a douchebag soul patch.

That’s who gets to fuck her, he thought in disbelief. Not me. That.

Kate lunged into his arms; and planted a kiss on his stubbled cheek. “Mwah! You look good enough to eat!”

As he hugged Kate, Kevin nodded politely to Justin, who politely nodded back.

When he handed Kate flowers, she almost had a brain aneurysm. “Flowers, oh my God, I love them, they’re so perfect, you’re so perfect, thank you thank you THANKYOU!” It was like she’d been handed racemes secateured from the boughs of Garden of Eden. She gushed and fussed and flapped, finally shrieking at her husband.

“Justin, find a vase! Find water! HURRY! The flowers are fucking WILTING!”

Flowers were forced into Justin’s hand. He stared at them in hatred. He remembered the last time he’d given his wife flowers. She’d said Aw, thanks, you’re so sweet and the next day he’d seen suspiciously similar-looking roses rotting in the compost.

Justin stuffed the flowers into a dry vase, praying they’d die quickly. Kate was too giddily distracted to notice that he hadn’t added water. She leaped around the kitchen, clumsily making mixed drinks for her new lover, spilling crushed sugar and ice everywhere. She seemed just frantic to get the evening rolling.

“So, what will you two be doing?” Justin asked.

Frosted Tips flipped and folded his shades into the pocket of his popped-collar shirt, and turned to Kate.

“Yo, we’re not gonna have him—” a dismissive finger jerked Justin’s way “—hanging around the house while we bang, are we?”

Kate’s cheeks flushed when he said bang.

Justin was lost for words. Rage crashed against him in a hot red tide, spiraling through his chest. “Dude, it’s MY HOUSE! And I’m her husband!”

Frosted Tips shook his head, and gave a slow, rueful smile. “Coulda fooled me, dude. Coulda fooled me.”

Justin leaped forward, fists raised, eyes slitted.

The guy set his feet, snarled, and prepared to fight.

“STOP IT!” Kate flung her body between the two men. “Cut it out!”

Then she squeezed hands around Justin’s shoulders, eyes imploring. “Honey, I was hoping Kevin and I would have a bit of…uh…privacy tonight, so we can get to know each other. If that’s alright with you…it’s our first night, after all!”

The entire weight of the sky seemed to slam down on Justin’s shoulders. This is real. This is happening. He liked curveballs better when they were at Wrigley Field, and when he was the one throwing them. His wounded pride was punctured by an image of Dr Gluckstein, all stern glasses and fussy librarian manner, wagging a finger at him. Be supportive. Allow your wife to grow. Don’t yuck her yums.

No.

Fuck no.

Fuck doing the work. Fuck holding space. He wouldn’t be humiliated like this. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair.

Kate had gone too far!

“I bought this fucking house, and I’m not leaving!” he snarled at them. "I’m staying right here!"

And then Kate cruelly slashed the neck he’d defiantly stiffened for her.

“Fine.” Her stare was a flat line. No fucks given. “Stay. But I warn you, we’re not going to be quiet.”

She sauntered toward the bedroom—his bedroom—ass swaying, holding hands with that fuck-ass white rapper with frosted tips.

Kevin turned his head, and sneered in victory. He reached a tattooed hand behind Kate’s back, and unhooked her bra. It whiplashed from her shoulders, falling on the floor—boat-sized 28HH cups slapped on the tiles, with diaphanous silk strands fluttering behind them like the pennants of a defeated army.

And they were gone from view, into the bedroom.

He heard them climb onto his marriage bed, giggling like idiots.

Justin wasn’t angry anymore. That hollow, vacant sense had fallen over him again. Nothing mattered. Nothing was of any consequence. It was almost like freedom. He didn’t have to sit with his discomfort. He just had to sit. And sit. And sit.

It went on all night.

Kate was right—they weren’t quiet.

* * *

“Uhhh! Uhhh! OOHH! FUUCK!”

SPLOOOOOSHHH-WHAP! Plap-plap-PLAAAAAPPPP! SCHLUUUUPPP-SMAK!

Justin sat catatonic on the couch. Sex-noises slavered and spewed and slurped from his bedroom. Genitals pounding genitals. Gland to gland combat.

Holy fuck, why are they so loud?

SCHLAPPP-SCHLAPPP-SCHLAPPP! PLAAAAAAPPPPPSHHH! SCHLAAAPPP-SQUISH!

Wet, obscene sounds of brutal bull-rutting filled the house and filled his ears. He couldn’t escape it. Every empty space in the mansion was like a chalice, immediately overflooding with gushy-wet, messy, squelching noise.

SCHLUUUUURRRRPPPKKK! Slllluuuurrrppp-gak-gak! SSSSSSCHLLLLUUUURRRRPPP!

He heard everything. Everything. Hips plapping against hips. A huge cock, happily slurping its way inside his wife’s convulsing cunt. Bedsprings rocking and jolting as Kate swallowed a fat veiny bitch-breaker down to the balls, ramming its bulbous head against her G-spot, triggering screams of primal ecstasy.

“Oh… oh… oh… uh… uhh.. yeah… like that!” Her voice was a blade, bright and girlish. Brittle. "Uhh! Uhh! Uhh! OOHH!" A voice crystallized from glass and honeyed sugar, sharp, insatiable, and ready to fracture beneath its own need. Unstable. A sound born to shatter.

Justin kept checking horse race statistics on Deadspin, trying to ignore the drooling cunt being splayed open twenty feet away. Why did I stay? God damn it. Shoulda walked while I had the chance. I’ll look like a spineless pussy if I run out now.

The slapping, rhythmic drumbeat of raw animalistic sex raped his ears, twisting coils around his brain. For fuck’s sake, why hadn’t they shut the goddamn door?

A particularly vivid plop sound made him wince. Yes, my bedroom is already metaphorically open, but does it also have to be LITERALLY open?

Kate’s squeals were like a Go-Kart motor revving up.

“Oh! Uhhh! That’s it! That’s IIIIIT! CUUUMING! I’M CUUUMMMMINNGGGGUHHH!”

Her movements were outlined in starkly visceral explosions of sound. Her hips surged forward, spraying cum. A sloppy tide of frothy fuck slop splattered over the sheets and their pummeling crotch, overlaid by her orgasmic screams.

Deafening. Disgusting. Abhorrent. A moist, slippery, visceral orchestral rondo of throbbing fuck-flesh squelching together. The sound damned souls hear if they end up in the fun part of hell.

He heard every slap and gush of flesh twisting knots into flesh, heard every heave of breath, heard every hump and thrust.

Every detail seemed to scar hearing like shrapnel. He’d heard the precise moment, Kevin propped Kate’s kicking legs over his shoulders for deeper penetration into her writhing, orgasm-slick cunt, knew the exact picosecond his prick hit bottom of her fuck-sleeve for the first time.

Slooooorrrppppp sklupppppp shlorpppp! Slooooorrrppppp sklupppppp shlorpppp!

A fast cunt-cleaving rhythm sliced the air. His cock whammed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Justin cringed, feeling flop-sweat trickle down his armpits. He could practically hear individual veins in the guy’s cock as they zoomed through Kate’s fucked-apart cunt.

They banged for nearly an hour. Kate had four loud orgasms.

Then Kevin gasped, socketing his hips deep within. The fast rutting became a lewd, sticky cunt-rooting sound as he ploughed his thick shaft in and held it womb-deep, blowing a river of baby batter into her pleasure-dilating slit.

SCHLOOOOORRRRRKKKKK-GLUUUUURRRRPPP-SQUUUEEELLLCHHH-SPLUUUURRRRTTTT

Justin gritted his teeth, hearing an avalanche of thick gloopy spunk slam into his wife’s pussy. He felt sick and faint, as disgusting gurgles and splatters made the air tremble. Holy fuck, as if it wasn’t enough that he could hear everything happening on his marriage bed, he could now smell it, too!

SPLUUURRTT… splurt… splt… DROOOOOL… drool… drl…

The sound of Kevin dumping his balls his wife guttered out to near silence. Thin fast breathing. Kate saying ohmygodohmygodohmygod, syllables faster than an Eminem verse. Then…

Plop.

Footsteps.

Kate stepped out naked into the hall.

She was silhouetted in blue light. A tall and curvy figure, hunched over with exhaustion, shining with perspiration.

“Huh…huh…” She sucked in air desperately, leaning against wall. Huge boobs slung and spilled, glistening heavily as they lolled down her chest. The nipples dangled in space.

Panting. Covered in fuck-sweat. Immaculately coiffed hair fucked into a wild tangled shock.

He’d never seen her look like this. Much less caused her to look like this.

Kate’s long pale legs trembled, knees wobbling like a newborn giraffe’s. She wiped off her face, and stepped into the light of the living room.

“So, er…” Justin said.

Kate spun in sudden irritation, hands on hips. “What?”

He didn’t know what he’d meant to say.

“Nothing.”

He stared, stupefied, at the rivers of cum spewing down her thighs, bubbling from her slack pussy lips. Globules sluiced down to the floor, leaving a dribbling trail of white. The guy’s load flowed with the slow turgid thickness of dirty engine oil, with Kate the high performance V8. She’d swallowed everything in his balls, and was now disgorging it down her thighs.

Kate wiped off her flushed face, found a meerschaum makeup compact, and began redoing her lipstick in a wall mirror. Justin just watched.

“I’m really proud of you, baby,” her voice was husky. “You’re making big steps here.”

“Thanks.” He smiled, and assumed it was over.

Kate just returned to the bedroom they’d just debauched and defiled, and repeated the debauchery another two times.

Four hours later, her lover finally bounced. Justin flung open every window in the house. God, you smelled sex-stink everywhere. The whole mansion smelled like puke from a depraved cunt. He was glad he’d be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future.

Still, he couldn’t be mad at her.

It’s not about shrinking me. It’s about growing her. He repeated the mantra until it lost all meaning, until it numbed his brain like Novocaine, like bee stings drilled right into his soft brain matter.

He still smiled. It wasn’t exactly a happy smile, but it was something.

He hoped tomorrow would be different.

* * *



The next night—

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god OHMYGAWWWWWWWWD I’m gonna CUUUUMMMM!!!”

Obscene sex noises flowed like a river through his house.

He felt like a drowning sailor, bobbing helplessly on wreckage, as a surging storm of noise washed over him.

Bedsprings ringing and ratcheting.

Skin slamming skin.

Thirsty mewls and howls.

Grunts, curses, cries, curses, prayers, invocations of the name of God, and wild ululating screams. He’d never known Kate had such strong lungs. A bit of vocal training, and she’d be a triple fucking threat.

“HARDER! TEAR ME UP! WRECK MY FUCKING SLUTHOLE, YOU UGLY MOTHERFUCKER!”

Assuming someone else wrote her lyrics, anyway.

Justin heard a meaty, heavy clap clap clap that seemed to hammer through walls like his heartbeat was through his own ribcage. He knew that sound from firsthand experience—sadly, not recent firsthand experience.

It was the noise Kate Upton’s 28HH fuck-jugs made as they sailed toward her neck, snapped back down with an arching whiplash of her pleasure-contorted spine, and whammed like water balloons against her stomach.

Clap clap clap plap plap plap plap plop plop plop plop

He smiled. When her boobs and body got sweat-lathered, the clapping noise got deeper. He’d forgotten that. Amazing what you forget, when your wife hasn’t given you more than a goodnight kiss in a month and a half.

“AHHHH. OOHHHHH. THAT FEELS SO FUCKING GOOO-OOOOHHHHDDD. GONNA CUM! GONNA CUUUM!”

What was she up to now? Seven? Something like that? Who knew she was such a machine-gun. I felt so proud that time I got her off twice in one afternoon. He swallowed, hating the taste of his own mouth.

Thoughts of sex plunged him into a dark place. And not the one he wanted to be inside. God, he missed her body. Being able to caress it, hold it, sculpt it. Filling his hands with hot flesh by the pound and palmful.

At least he still got to experience her sexually. Just not directly. Through someone else. Second-hand Kate Upton was better than first-hand anyone else.

“GONNA CUM! GONNA CUM! YOU’RE MAKING ME CUMCUMCUMCUUUUMMMM!!!”

Kate’s voice swerved and curved with desire. It pierced everything. He heard every grunt, every moan, every slosh of her enormous breasts cannonballing back and forth on her chest. It was stenographed on the walls of his mind.

“DON’T STOP! KEEP FUCKING ME! DRILL ME THROUGH THE WALL? DO YOU HEAR ME! THROUGH THE FUCKING WALL!”

The nonstop fucking went on for over five hours. Kate was insatiable, screaming and screaming, howling so loud the walls seemed ready to splinter. She blew up on the man’s prick so many times that Justin was surprised there wasn’t a river of female ejaculate trickling out the door along with all the noise.

They finally finished screwing at four in the morning. A scabby Chicano greaseball in a du-rag sauntered out, smoking a cigarette.

He fistbumped Justin on the way to the door.

“Thanks for letting me fuck your girl, tio. She a wild piece of ass! Jajaja!”

* * *

Another night. Another cock for Kate to pole-vault on.

Justin sat in the living room, staring at the rust-covered jeans of a Teamster truck driver. They were still in the same spot where she’d yanked them down from his hips.

He understood Kate’s need for excitement and risk, but surely giving the guy a blowjob right in front of him was a bit much…

Now he got to listen to them fuck. Viscerally hearing every thump of Kate’s tits as they hit her collarbone like speedbags, hearing every orgasmic moan wrenched from her throat.

It went on and on. The sounds of his wife getting a dick up her cock-socket.

Eventually, the smile on his face had a thin, strained quality. Like wallpaper, peeling off his face.

“Ahh! AHHH! AHHHH!!!! OHHH!!”

Once the man started forcing her to call him daddy and papi, Justin couldn’t take it anymore. He tried to escape. Tried to hide. He lifted up the comforter thrown over the couch and crawled under it, pressing a pillow over his ears. Just a child, scared of the dark.

It offered no resistance to her screams. Her orgasms tore through everything.

* * *

“So how are you finding your open marriage, Justin?” Dr Sonia Gluckstein asked, sweet and fake as Splenda, one stockinged leg folded atop the other. Her hands were laced, the fingers overlaid in a sharp steeple. She stared at him severely.

It was just him and her this time.

Kate was at home. The stovetop hood on their kitchen was broken—it short-circuited the house when they switched on the light—and they’d booked a repair guy to come over. Someone needed to watch him so he didn’t go upstairs and raid Kate’s underwear drawer.

“…Anything to report on that front?”

He grunted indistinctly. Sleep-deprived, he’d lapsed into abject shellshock, replaying memories of last night.

A skeevy-looking black guy with gray stubble and a windcheater had showed up at the door. He’d been older than Kate by at least thirty years.

He’d claimed to be a dog trainer. He’d stripped Kate naked, and put a pink collar around her throat. Then he’d ordered her to walk on all fours, a housepet with tits and a cunt. He’d shoved a lubed buttplug with a fluffy tail up her ass, and made her gambol around Justin’s legs, woofing and playing fetch. This elaborate doggy role play had ended back at the black man’s hips, where the dog had gotten a bone.

The therapist’s voice pierced the horror-fugue of his thoughts.

“Justin! Wake up!”

“Huh?” He jerked upright. “Sorry.”

“How are you finding the open marriage?”

“She’s had sex with forty different men on my bed.” Justin shuddered, revolted. “Forty-one, depending on how you count. It’s just…I know she wants to sow some wild oats, but I just didn’t think there would be this many.”

“Your wife once said that another man would be the missing piece in her puzzle.” Dr Gluckstein’s smile. “I think she’s only just discovering how many missing pieces she actually has. You have to be empathetic here, Justin. This is your wife healing from trauma she didn’t even know she had, Justin.”

“I suppose so.” He shrugged. She had such a way with words.

Dr Gluckstein smiled, a benevolent angel. “I am very proud of you, Justin. Many men simply wouldn’t have the strength—the courage!—to escape society’s masculine programming, and allow their wife to heal in this fashion. From what Kate tells me, you’ve been a model citizen…aside from one or two lapses which we will discuss.”

Justin gulped, feeling strangely better. “Yeah…” he shrugged. “It’s just…it’s really hard, you know. Really hard.”

Blip. A text had just arrived on Dr Gluckstein’s pastel-pink phone.

Her eyes flicked to read it. Flicked back. A smile ghosted upon her face and then evaporated, like a smear of kettle-steam vanishing from a windowpane.

“Justin…” An acrylic-nailed hand slid onto his, and squeezed. She smiled ruefully. “I know it’s hard. But sometimes…”

…The challenge is the way? He thought.

“The challenge is the path.”

Almost.

“SONIA!” Dr Gluckstein’s receptionist yelled from down the hall.

Sonia sighed, and stood. The hand vanished from Justin’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Nadine? What’s wrong?”

“The printer jammed again! How do I unstick it!”

“Can’t you tell I’m with a client? A famous client? I’m disappointed, Nadine. Your resume indicated basic office skills—”

As Dr Gluckstein raked her receptionist over the coals, Justin leaned over to look at the phone.

It was unlocked. He read the text conversation on the screen.

> KU: hi biiiitchh! got a quick q > SG: make it VERY quick. the village idiot just showed up for our appointment > KU: should the guy be on top? if im trying for a baby? > SG: yes. on top, with his hips raised. missionary is best. vaginal undulations help the sperm reach the egg, so try to have at least one orgasm. > KU: thats usually not a problem lol

And then the latest message…

>KU: ok, just finished. feels all squirmy and nice, like theyre wriggling in there can you keep you-know-who busy for another 45 mins? there are two guys and i wouldn’t mind doing the other one before he gets back

He heard Sonia Gluckstein’s sharp-heeled footsteps, and jerked back into his seat, pulse pounding, just as the door swung open.

“Sorry about that. Now, where were we…”

It’s not her, he thought. It’s someone else called KU. And someone other than me is the village idiot. I mean, didn’t she just call me brave and courageous? How could I also be an idiot?

Then Dr Gluckstein spoke.

“Justin, I think we’ll need to extend today’s appointment, to tease out some problem spots. Forty-five minutes should be enough.”

* * *



Months rolled into months, like necrotic pustules rupturing and suppurating into each other. No difference between one scab and the next, ultimately. Days became an undifferentiated smear of time.

A bleary, near constant orgy of sex droned out across the mansion. None of it involving Justin.

Kate fucked and fucked and fucked, spreading her legs for numberless men. Photographers. Maintenance men. Old friends.

Justin got used to playing the butler. Opening the door for her bulls. Taking their coats. Offering them breath mints and refreshments. Showing them the way to the bedroom. Dr Gluckstein had suggested he take on this role, to become more involved in his wife’s new lifestyle.

He was starting to get used to this.

If I behave, she lets me watch. Sometimes, anyway.

Justin felt like the eunuch guarding a harem. Observing a world he could never participate in. It was sad, but better than being superfluous.

And such a world it was to see…

He got to watch a man grasp Kate’s thick hips like a wheelbarrow, lift her up into the air against his crotch, and blow a load deep into her from a standing position. His cock had been so big he’d seen a bulge distending Kate’s lightly stubbled pubic mount. Her pubic mound had jerked and throbbed as he’d ejaculated inside it.

He got to watch three college boys take turns on her, pounding her into the mattress, reducing her to a whimpering heap of tits and blonde hair. One of them did whip-its while he fucked. Justin’s head spun like a piñata from all second-degree nitrous oxide he was inhaling. He thought he was suffering from severe brain trauma. Hoped he was suffering from severe brain trauma.

He got to watch a former PGA golfer take a dozen Ben-Wa balls on a cord, and press them one by one against Kate’s asshole. Using a nine iron, he literally putted them inside her ass, one by one. Her puckered asshole slurped up all twelve. The man had then promptly yanked them out in a single hard pull—the sound had been like a massive toilet clog getting unblocked by a plunger—and replaced them with his cock. She’d screamed so loud the chandeliers above still seemed to be resonating with her fundamental harmonics.

He watched her fuck other men until his eyes glazed over, and his brain seemed to dribble out of his ears.

“Is your husband mentally…okay?” Kate’s stunt cock of the evening asked while trying to get hard again. He cast worried side-eye in Justin’s direction.

Kate’s quivering legs were splayed. Her drooling gash had been fucked wide open, and three cumloads rolled out like the tide. “He just likes to watch.”

“It’s just, he keeps mumbling the challenge is the way over and over.” The man shrugged. “Like, what does that even mean?”

* * *

Kate missed a period.

Her belly began to swell; a cumulonimbus gathering before the storm.

As she took scores of lovers between her hips, Justin watched her growing baby bulge sloshing back and forth, like a larger version of her breasts. The sight of it swinging back and forth over her pumping, drooling crotch was faintly hypnotic. The miracle of life.

As Justin watched the bump catapult back and forth as she humped some man or another, all of his worries seemed to lift into the skies.

He kept track of the baby’s growth. Each week, her baby ball would rock back and forth just a little more. Her pregnancy was an explosion, a Hiroshima-sized nuke, time-lapsed down to extreme slow motion. Lots of little bangs instead of one big one.

In the final weeks, Kate lost herself to her own depravity.

A neverending river of men seemed flow into their mansion, and into her. All day long, the glass windows rang with her screams as she climaxed like a slut in heat. Justin stopped trying to clean up her messes. There were too many of them. The carpet and bedsheets and walls and curtains acquired seemingly hundreds of stains, each marking a spot where her pussy had ejaculated.

A small regiment of men planted their cocks into his well-fertilized wife, seemingly driven insane by Kate’s overripe, heavily pregnant body. He got used to seeing Kate’s legs splayed on their couch or their recliner or their bed, belly jiggling heavily as someone pounded his cock into her gash.

A feverish, baby-crazed mating energy had taken over her. The hormones racing through Kate’s body made her more sex-crazed than ever. It was complete anarchy. She took five or six or seven men a day. She was a beautiful flower, spreading and being pollinated by every single goddamn bee in the garden.

Everywhere, Justin heard the sound of the nymphomaniac blonde getting smashed and wrecked, her enormous belly wobbling back and forth, the sloppy squelching of thick cocks plunging in and out of her sopping wet pussy.

* * *

Glad for her, he thought, as his heavily-pregnant wife screamed.

Today, Kate was on her back, legs spread. Her sweaty thighs were spread in a diamond shape. A boy was pumping and rutting at the gash between them, his ass squirming back and forth.

He defiled Justin’s wife with long, eight-inch strokes of his cock. She howled, sweat running down her face. She bared her teeth as she orgasmed ferociously around the man’s rooting shaft.

“Be careful,” Justin said timidly. “She’s very pregnant.”

“No shit,” the kid said, grasping her hips for support.

Kate’s belly hung forward, an enormous bulging watermelon, distending to touch the ground. Her baby bump was drum-taut. Every movement made the obscene bulb quiver.

It would not be long now.

The college kid fucking her on a pile of pillows was just eighteen. Slightly over half her age. He pulled his eight-inch cock out of her dripping gash, and stood over her.

“I’m gonna fuck your boobs,” he said.

Kate smiled, panting in horny rapture, and held up her monstrous tits. They’d swollen into bulbous sacks of flesh that flooded over her hands.

“Think you’ve got enough cock for them?” Kate clapped her massive udders together. WHAP! WHAP! Her nipples seesawed back and forward, whiplashing atop rolling hillocks of breastflesh. “My husband didn’t.”

Justin had turned a corner. Once, a remark like that would have raised some hackles.

Now, he took his lumps with a smile.

The kid chewed the her plug-like nipples, then plunged his face into the obscene canyon sweeping between Kate’s heavy monster jugs. He grasped both sides of her rack with his hands, and pressing huge white slut titflesh like a pliant cocoon around his head. Her breasts washed over him like tectonic plates, almost drowning him.

Then he hip-straddled Kate’s arched chest, using her pregnant belly as a backrest. He slapped his fat cock between her pale udders. It submerged from view like a pink phallic submarine, sinking in a thalassic sea of tit.

The college freshman started seesawing his fat cock between Kate Upton’s tits. Moaning, the kid thrust and pounded a sweaty path through Kate’s mountainous, slippery fuck-tanks. They wobbled obscenely as his cock jabbed in and out. She squeezed her boobs, applying pressure inward, trying to stop his dick from slipping out.

The college boy hammered away at full-force at Kate Upton’s cleavage for over ten minutes. Then he lunged forward, howling in release.

His fat cock began pulsing and squirting.

Semen hosed out of his penis in violent blasts, piling atop Kate’s breasts in clotted, heaped loops of genetic sludge. His ejaculate was as thick and messy as cake icing piped out of a chef’s pipette. He groaned hideously. His knees wobbled as his balls continued to evacuate themselves. A loud, gloppy splattering echoed through the room.

“Uhhhhh! SHOOTING IN YOUR WHORE WIFE’S TITS!” he yelled at Justin, sawing his spraying length between Kate Upton’s sloppy milk-filled jugs, making them vibrate.

The huge fatty masses were soon splattered with strands and ropes and clumps of splooge. He gasped, and rolled free. Kate let go of her tits. The gigantic preggo breasts collapsed beneath their own weight and rolled down to her sides; an avalanche of flesh.

Kate glanced at Justin. The kid glanced at Justin.

Both waiting for his response.

But Justin just grinned vacantly. No thoughts. Head empty.

“Babe,” Kate said, wiping handfuls of ballgoop from her rack. “What do you think of Shelley? Would that be a good name for a girl?”

* * *



* * *

On November the 1st, Shelley Upton-Verlander entered the world. She weighed seven point one pounds.

The baby had a head of downy-soft fuzz, and grasping, inquisitive fingers. Her face was soulful and wide. A child with eyes full of questions, and a whole life ahead to discover, treasure, and endure the answers.

In celebration, Justin Verlander and Kate Upton granted an exclusive interview to Women’s Choice magazine.

The photoshoot was held at their Beverly Hills estate. Kate looked divine. A glowing, radiant goddess, so incandescently beautiful she almost set fire to the camera lens when she smiled. The photogs drank her up.

She was the picture of perfect, happy health. Skin spun from flawless gold. A mouth full of blinding white teeth. Glossy hair, French-braided and then twisted upon itself like some glabrous Ouroboric snake. She breastfed little Shelley on a water-barrel sized tit that was paler than her body, like a white moon carved out of chalcedony.

Justin stood over his wife’s shoulder as she nursed the baby. He did not blink when camera flashes popped.

Like her, he looked happy. Unlike her, it was a strange, ambiguous sort of happiness.

The photographs came out slightly discomforting, because of how unsettling Justin’s grin was.

He looked like a Pali mystic who has climbed a mountain and seen Nirvana. He had transcended. Attained enlightenment. His mind had fled the mortal realm, never again to partake in its mundanities. He had glimpsed infinity, pierced the cosmic veil. Nothing mattered, and in that nothing was bliss.

During the interview, he was presented as a model husband. A veritable rock to Kate during her pregnancy.

It was mentioned—only in passing—that the Upton-Verlanders had opened up their marriage.

“You’re so brave,” the interviewer said.

“I’m just holding space for my wife’s needs,” he told Woman’s Choice.

All the women in the room cooed and clucked. What a respectful, empathetic, progressive husband he was being.

“Was it emotionally difficult, seeing your wife with other men?” The interviewer asked.

And for just a second, a shadow seemed to slash across the sunlit Nirvana of Justin Verlander’s face. Then it was gone.

“…Yes,” he admitted. “It was, at times. I’m not perfect. I had moments of jealousy. I just had to remind myself: her new lifestyle isn’t about shrinking me, it’s about growing her.”

Then Kate handed Shelley to her husband. The photographers got into position—this could be cover shot material.

Justin smiled again for the cameras.

Smiled, and cradled his wife’s newly born—and very black—baby.