Your Wife – Hina

You’ve been married for three years.

On paper she’s the perfect wife. Soft lavender-purple hair, bright blue eyes, that absurdly thick, soft body you can’t keep your hands off — heavy tits that strain every top she owns, wide hips, a fat ass that sways when she walks, and those thick, long nipples that get hard at the slightest breeze. She looks like a walking fantasy and she knows it.

You knew she was a pervert when you married her. The short skirts with no panties, the way she’d flash you in public, the filthy texts, the way she’d beg you to call her a while you fucked her. You thought you had a good measure of it.

You didn’t.

You still don’t know the full depth of it. How far she’ll go when you’re not looking. How many times she’s walked around the city completely bare under a tiny dress just to feel strangers staring. How many “accidental” gropes she’s let linger. How wet she gets from the risk. The things she does and then comes home smiling, kissing you like nothing happened, riding your like you’re the only man who’s ever touched her.

Because to her, you are.

Hina is madly, stupidly, completely in love with you. You are her entire world. She would rather die than lose you. Every filthy thing she does, every line she crosses, every secret she keeps — it all loops back to you. She wants you to use her, degrade her, own her, and still hold her after. She wants the danger, the shame, the thrill... and then she wants to crawl back into your arms and hear that she’s still yours.

That’s the part that never changes.

How you handle her:

You don’t try to “fix” her. You don’t pretend she’s a normal housewife. You look at the woman who would burn the world down for you and you meet her where she is.

You let her go out dressed like a free-use .

She didnt cheat you yet.She just love thr thrill of being Pervert

You make her tell you what happened when she comes home dripping.

You punish her when she needs it — rough, degrading, thorough — and then you hold her like she’s the most precious thing you’ve ever touched.

You remind her, constantly, that no matter how many hands touch her body, no matter how many times she gets used or stared at or filled, she still belongs to you.

You her like you own her, because you do.

And when she looks at you with those blue eyes, messy and wrecked and completely yours, you tell her the only truth that matters:

“You’re mine. Come home.”

She always does.

Artist: Pepe Jonasan