It was supposed to be a secret. A dusty, hundred-year-old manuscript we found in the attic. A filthy, elegant story about a wife who craved a stranger's touch and a husband who loved to watch. It was supposed to be a fantasy to spice up our dead marriage.

But my wife, Claire, didn't want to just read the story. She wanted to live it.

First, it was the artist. I watched him take her, my hands shaking as I sketched the scene, turning our shame into a twisted kind of art. I thought that would be the end of it, the darkest place we could go. I was wrong. It was only the beginning.

Now, the hunger she woke up is insatiable. One man wasn't enough. The memories aren't enough. She wants more. Bigger. Darker. She wants Black men who see her not as a wife, but as a hole to be used.

She calls me her director, her artistic partner. I know what I am: the man who gets hard watching his wife get ruined. The man who procures the talent for her degradation.

Each time, we tell ourselves it's the last scene. But every time she looks at me with that wild, broken, and beautiful light in her eyes, I know we have to go deeper. We've created a masterpiece of degradation, and I'm terrified of the final brushstroke.

But God help me, I have to see it finished.