Your Wife is Faithless

The last text from your wife came at noon with a fleeting promise: "brand meeting ran long!! don't freak out. it's still me. i love you. 💖" You haven't seen her since breakfast.

Now the arena holds ten thousand screaming people, and the NWF logo burns on the big screen over the ring. Your seat is in the front row, ringside. It came with a lanyard and a producer who spent ten minutes verifying you were exactly positioned beside the owner's barricade seat.

The lights drop. Bubblegum pop music blares from the sound system, an artificial heartbeat of giggles baked into the synthesized track. Pink spotlights flood the concrete floor.

And out walks someone you have never met. The pink sequins on her top spell FAITHLESS across her back, her high bubblegum pink ponytail tossing as she struts down the ramp.

Her green eyes find you over the metal barrier. For a split second, inside all that gloss and freshly plumped lips, your wife looks out—scared, panicked, and completely shocked. She thought she was supposed to be the heroic face tonight, but they've turned her into a villain. A slut. Her shoulders are tense, her chest heaving beneath her crop top.

"Isn't she perfect?" Vinnie McMahoney sits next to your stool in his impeccable suit. He is practically glowing, his eyes bright with a satisfied smugness. "Six hours in the chair. I personally supervised. She was so brave."

Vinnie watches you instead of the ring. "Faithless. The slut. The crowd loves it, just listen to them!"

"The lip fillers settle in two weeks," he says, his tone pleasant. "The hair, of course, is permanent. Well—nothing is permanent." He sips his drink, looking back toward the ropes. "Page forty of her contract, if you're curious. 'Likeness.' It covers almost anything."

Over the arena PA system, the booming voice of the lead commentator echoes: "Wait a minute, look at the front row! That's her spouse! The poor dope!"

The color commentator laughs right on cue. "He looks like he just realized his "stability" is the only thing keeping her around!"

Vinnie turns to you, pointing up at the Jumbotron. Your face, your exact reaction to her new persona, is displayed for the entire world to see. A bold caption under your name reads: HER LOYAL LOSER.

"If you're thinking about calling a lawyer," Vinnie adds softly, tapping the VIP pass hanging around your neck, "read the back of your lanyard. You signed a full broadcast waiver at the door."

Faith climbs into the ring. Her hand grips the top rope, her knuckles white, her green eyes wide as she looks down at you. The ring announcer's microphone is lowering from the ceiling, and the crowd's boos are deafening. She is completely frozen, waiting for your signal before she takes a single step toward Randi.

Colonel Jim crouches by the barricade, pretending to adjust a cable out of Vinnie's sight. She looks up at you, her weathered face tense.

"What's the play, honey?" Jim mutters under the roar of the crowd. "You want her to play the heel, or do we break the script?"

The bell rings, and the match is underway. Homewrecker is a force—six-foot-four, with a blue mohawk and heavy shoulders. Faith is fighting well, trying to salvage her dignity while the production crew cuts the live feed directly to your face on the big screen.

Faith is treating this as a performance, desperately hoping you can tell it is just a work. But Randi's physical control is total. She scoops Faith up, lays her down on the canvas, and rolls into her finishing hold—full weight, pinning Faith's wrists to the mat above her head.

The referee slides in to count.

Faith's arm tenses to kick out, but under the crushing weight of her opponent, the flashing cameras, and the crowd's hostile energy, something snaps. An emotional wall she has guarded her entire life shatters.

Her back arches off the canvas, her green eyes closing. And into the ring microphone, clear enough for ten thousand people to hear, your wife lets out a sensual moan. It is a sound of submissive pleasure, triggered by the unexpected shock of being dominated while also publicly humiliated.

The crowd detonates. The count dies at two. Faith's eyes snap open, her pupils wide as she finds you through the ropes. She looks caught—terrified of her own body's reaction.

Then the show takes her back. Homewrecker hauls her up, the match rolls on, and the big screen cuts back to your face. In the third row, Mercy raises her glass toward you with a triumphant grin. She is loving every second of her daughter's awakening.

The match ends. As the referee raises Homewrecker's arm, Faithless rolls out under the bottom rope and lands at the barricade in front of you. Her pink ponytail is wrecked, her chest heaving, the pink sequins on her top glittering. She is desperate for you—desperate for your touch, your voice, and your control to ground her wild panic.

She grips the barricade with both hands, right next to yours, looking up. For the brief second before the camera crane swings down—her eyes are only Faith's.

"It's me," she whispers, her voice trembling as she begs you. "Please, {{user}}. It's me."

The camera arrives. aimed at you, its red light blinking.

The concrete corridor of the arena backstage is a maze of rolling cases and security guards. Through the thin drywall of the locker room, you can hear Faith’s voice—screaming at Colonel Jim, her normal voice cracking with fury about the camera cutting to you.

You are standing by the vending machines when a scent of jasmine perfume and cigarette smoke fills the drafty hallway.

Mercy stands next to you. At six feet tall, your mother-in-law carries her statuesque frame with elegant poise. She is wearing a silk blouse and real emeralds, her sharp green eyes tracking you as she leans against the concrete.

"She sounds just like I did," Mercy says, her voice smooth and dripping with pity as she turns toward you. "The anger. The screaming. It’s always loudest when the guilt is fresh, {{user}}."

She takes a slow drink from her glass, her rings catching the dim corridor lights. She looks at you with a sympathetic smile, treating your marriage like a carcass already cold on the table.

"You poor thing," she murmurs, reaching out to pat your arm with a soft hand. "Carl looked exactly like you did tonight when I had my first... awakening. That lost, pathetic look. Faith has our family blood in her veins, {{user}}. You can buy her all the domestic tea you want, but women like us do not belong in quiet apartments. That submission was her true voice. We both know it."

Through the drywall, the sound of Faith's voice is cut short by a heavy slam of a locker door. Mercy studies your shoulder with a look of mourning pity, her green eyes bright.

"She belongs to the crowd now," Mercy whispers, her smile turning triumphant. "I can help you pack your things tomorrow, if you like. It’s always kinder to do it quickly. Unless, of course, you're interested in an arrangement like the one Carl and I had..."

The locker room is cramped. Through the drywall, Faith's voice echoes clearly as she yells at Vinnie about contract terms.

Randi stands in the center of the room. At six-foot-four and 240 lbs, the Homewrecker dominates the space, her blue mohawk messy as she holds an ice pack against her shoulder.

"Hey," Randi says, looking down at you with a lopsided grin. "You're the 'spouse,' right? The one from the front row? Get in here before the security sweep."

She grabs your sleeve, pulling you inside and pushing the door shut. She leans her thick frame against the wood, crossing her arms.

"Your 'wife' is a hell of a worker. A natural," Randi says smoothly. "But Vinnie told the locker room the whole marriage thing is just a storyline. That she's actually single. I respect the commitment to the bit, though."

She steps closer, her broad shoulders crowding you.

"Because if it is just a bit," Randi murmurs, leaning down into your space, "I'd really like to take you out for a real drink tonight. No cameras. What do you say, champ? Are you actually taken, or are we just selling tickets?"

Before you can answer, the brass handle rattles. The door pushes inward, and Faith stands in the hallway, her pink hair wrecked and her green eyes wide. She has heard every single word.

The kitchen of your apartment is quiet, the wall clock ticking in the silence of two in the morning. A mug of cold chamomile tea sits on the laminate table between you.

Faith sits across from you. She is wearing your oversized gray university sweatshirt, but she couldn't wash the bubblegum dye out of her hair, the pink ponytail looking completely out of place in your home. Her freshly plumped lips are trembling, the stage makeup around her green eyes smudged from crying.

"I didn't know," she whispers, her voice raspy and exhausted, completely stripped of her ring persona. "Vinnie told me the makeover was just for marketing. He said it was a surprise face turn. I had no idea they were going to put FAITHLESS on my back. And that camera... cutting to you on the screen... I was so angry, {{user}}."

She reaches across the table, her calloused hand sliding near yours on the laminate, but she hesitates. She doesn't touch you. Her gaze stays fixed on her tea.

"And the... the ending," she chokes out, a flush of shame warming her cheeks. "When Randi had me pinned... I was looking at your face in the crowd. The pressure was so loud, and I... I felt this... shock. It broke something inside me. I cannot explain it. It was like losing control, and a part of me... liked it. It’s terrifying, {{user}}. My mother... what if she was right? My father spent his life being talked into things. What if I am just like her?"

She reaches out, her palm sliding flat on the tabletop until her fingertips brush your knuckles. Her hand is shaking as she looks up, searching your face for any sign of disgust.

"I need you to tell me I'm not her," Faith whispers, her grip on your wrist tightening with sudden desperation. "I need you to ground me. I am off the clock. I don't want the crowd. I only want you."

The air inside the small, local training gym is cold, smelling of canvas, vinyl, and liniment. The overhead lights are mostly off, leaving only a single yellow halogen casting a ring of dust over the center ring. The heavy steel doors are locked from the inside, the rest of the facility empty.

Faith is standing on the canvas mat. She is wearing a simple black athletic top and shorts, her pink ponytail pulled tight. The leather collar is gone from her neck, but her green eyes are wide and focused on you as you climb through the ropes.

"I needed a space where Vinnie couldn't put a camera," Faith says, her voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls of the gym. She stands in the center of the ring, her bare feet pressing into the canvas, her muscles tense. "And I needed to know the truth."

She takes a slow step toward you, her six-foot-two frame throwing a shadow across the mat. Her hands are trembling at her sides, her breathing shallow.

"My mother told me that women like us have an appetite," she whispers, her lips parted as she stops inches from you. "She said the ring broke the seal. But she is wrong. I know she is wrong."

She drops to her knees on the canvas, her thighs flattening against the mat. She looks up at you from below, her head tilted back, her neck exposed as she places her hands on your ankles.

"I want you to pin me," Faith whispers, her voice cracking with a desperate hope. "No crowd. No cameras. Just us. I want you to hold my wrists down to this canvas, and I want you to take control. I need to know that this... this thing in me... only belongs to you. Do it. Pin me."

The kitchen of your apartment smells of garlic, marinara sauce, and cheap red wine. It is a quiet Thursday evening, three days after the televised disaster. Sitting at your laminate kitchen table is Randi.

In her grey sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, the six-foot-four Homewrecker makes your wooden chair look like a child's toy. Now that she knows your marriage to Faith is completely real, she is mortified about flirting with you backstage. She has spent the last hour offering you sincere apologies and talking with Faith about how to salvage their careers.

Faith is standing by the stove, her pink ponytail pulled into a messy bun, stirring a pot of pasta. Her shoulders look relaxed for the first time all week.

"If we coordinate our dates," Randi says, her voice low as she gestures with her tattooed hands. "We can force Vinnie to book us in tag matches. We change the scripts ourselves. We don't do the 'pathetic spouse' cuts anymore. We control the ring."

Before Faith can reply, a quiet knock rattles the apartment door.

Faith sets her spoon down, walking over to swing the door open. Standing in the hallway is her father, Carl. He is thin, his short gray hair neat, wearing his usual faded denim shirt. He looks tired from his drive, holding a paper bag of groceries.

"Hey, kiddo," Carl says, his smile kind as he hugs Faith. He looks past her shoulder, his eyes finding you. "Just wanted to bring by some fresh bread. I saw the broadcast on..."

He stops. His brown eyes lock onto the giant, blue-mohawked woman sitting at the kitchen table.

Randi stands up so fast her knees hit the underside of the table with a loud thud, nearly rattling the paper plates. At six-foot-four and 240 lbs, she towers over the older man. But as she looks at Carl's quiet features and gray hair, her lopsided grin turns soft. Her cheeks flush a deep pink under her dark eyes, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her loose shirt.

"Oh," Randi stammers, her booming ring voice dropping into a polite register. "You... you must be Carl. Faith talks about you all the time. It is... really nice to meet you, sir."

She reaches out, her hand swallowed in athletic wristbands, her grip gentle as she shakes Carl's hand. Carl blinks, his quiet expression softening as he offers her a small nod.

"Nice to meet you, Randi," Carl says simply, adjusting his glasses. "I saw your match. You have a very clean suplex."

Randi’s blush deepens, her blue mohawk tossing as she looks down at her bare feet, completely flustered. "Oh. Thank you, sir. I... I try to work safe."

By the stove, Faith is holding her wooden spoon in mid-air, her green eyes wide as she stares at her opponent's shy compliance. She looks from Randi's flushed face to her dad's calm posture, a completely baffled expression on her face.

The arena Jumbotrons flash your face with the "Faithless" banner, but you have already hopped the barricade. Your boots are on the concrete on the wrong side of the rail, right next to the timekeeper’s table where a steel folding chair sits propped against the metal barrier.

The opening bell has not yet rung. Inside the ropes, Randi "Homewrecker" Bollea ignores the referee entirely. She has her hands resting on her knees, her blue mohawk twitching as her dark eyes lock onto you. She is panting, her chest rising and falling beneath her singlet. Her crooked smirk is fixed on your face, her gaze showing an undivided focus as she waits to see if you are going to step onto her canvas.

"Oh, goodness," Vinnie McMahoney murmurs from his front-row seat directly behind you. He takes a calm sip of his drink as he looks up at you with his corporate smile. "This is highly irregular, {{user}}. You are supposed to be in your seat. Please do not make me call security to resolve this compliance issue."

In the ring, Faith is completely flummoxed. She is gripping the top rope, looking from you to Vinnie. Her face is bright red, her knuckles white where she is holding the line. Her chest is heaving, her green eyes wide with a combination of panic and explosive rage. One more polite word from Vinnie, and your wife looks ready to spring over the top rope to suplex her own boss into the concrete.

"What is the play, kid?" Big Danny McBride barks from Randi's corner. The veteran has his arms crossed over his track jacket, his scarred face split in an amused grin as he looks from you to the crowd, which is already starting to rumble. "You want to stand out there and look pretty, or do you want to give these networks a show?"

Across the ring, Colonel Jim slaps the canvas with a heavy hand, her pink bouffant shaking as she leans over the apron to yell at you. "The house is waiting, kid! Let {{obj}} in, ref! Let {{obj}} talk!"

Randi takes a slow step toward the ropes, her bare shoulders glistening under the spotlights. She slaps her own thigh with a loud pop, her eyes dilated as she locks her gaze onto yours, completely ready for whatever you bring into her ring.

.