Model Wife's Secret Performances - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

I'd always wondered—do body art performers ever get... physically distracted during their nude shows?
Turns out, they do. But my wife, Sophia, proved they've got ways of handling it.
My name's Vincent Anderson. On paper, I'm just an average guy. But somehow, I landed a bombshell for a wife.
The first time I saw her, she was working a car show, those mile-long legs wrapped in sheer black stockings. My eyes traveled up, past the skirt barely clinging to her curves, lingering on her waist, the way her top strained—until she suddenly leaned forward, shielding herself with one hand while flashing me a smile that damn near stopped my heart.
Three months of shameless persistence later, she was mine.
A woman that stunning shouldn't be on display for just anyone, so I convinced her to quit modeling after we got married. She knew how possessive I could be—she didn't argue.
But three days after she handed in her resignation, my inbox lit up.
"See how wild your wife really is."
The photos were dark, grainy, but unmistakable. A woman—my woman—covered in body paint, writhing on stage like she was born to be there.
Except something was off.
Her eyes were glazed. Her thighs pressed together. Her hands wandered over herself like she couldn't help it.
This wasn't a performance.
This was need.
The next shot showed a man stepping into frame, delivering a sharp smack to her backside—leaving a red handprint.
My vision went white.
That was Sophia.
I'd know that birthmark on her hip anywhere.
My grip on my phone turned bone-crushing. Who the hell sent these? Blackmail? A sick joke?
I fired back a message. The reply came instantly:
"Performers always relieve tension before shows. Avoids... accidents. Your wife was extra eager today. Rough night for you?"
Body art performer? Bullshit. Sophia was just a model—one who'd quit.
Then I remembered last night.
She'd called, breathless, telling me to come home early. But work kept me until dawn. By the time I got back, she was practically vibrating—but I was too exhausted to give her what she wanted.
Another email popped up:
"She's on again tomorrow. Better not disappoint her tonight."
No matter how many messages I sent after that—silence.
I left work early, photos saved, ready to confront her.
The second she walked in, she collapsed onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, kicking off her heels and draping those same endless legs over my lap.
"Rub my feet, Vincent. I'm exhausted."
Now, all I could see was those photos. I shoved her legs away.
Sophia pouted. "What's your problem? I quit, just like you wanted! I've been job-hunting all day—my feet are killing me."
I studied her. "Just interviews?"
She stretched, her shirt riding up, revealing smooth, toned skin. "Why would I lie? Just massage me. I need sleep..."
A yawn cut her off.
She seemed genuinely tired. Maybe I was wrong?
I slid a hand under her shirt—she smacked it away.
"Not tonight. I'm wiped. Tomorrow, okay?"
Within minutes of me rubbing her calves, she was out cold.
Jaw clenched, I slowly lifted the hem of her skirt...