She stands between two well-dressed men. One is her husband, moist breath at her ear as his fingers pinch one of her nipples through her evening dress.

He whispers, “Are you a slut?”

She nods nervously.

“A dirty little slut?”

She swallows, nods.

“Say it.”

“I’m a dirty little slut.” Her voice is tremulous, fragile, a tiny bird.

“Louder.” His voice insistent.

“I’m a dirty little slut.” A new power informs her voice, as it becomes louder and more confident. Her hand snakes down to the rigid length hidden inside the pants of the man who is not her husband. He groans in response and pinches her other nipple.

She kneels down before both of them. Her husband reaches down to caress her hair.

“Good girl,” he tells her.

His hand moves from her hair to the halter of her dress. He rips it away, exposing her tits to both men. She gasps hungrily.

On her chest, SLUT is written in bright red lipstick. Her husband’s handiwork.

She looks into his loving eyes as she unleashes the stranger’s insistently throbbing cock.