How I Turned My Husband Into a Prejac (Patreon)

The marathon used to be a chore. Seven years ago, my husband was convinced his forty-five-minute sessions were a gift to me, but in reality, they were a mechanical, friction-filled slog. He’d huff and puff with this misplaced pride, entirely oblivious to the fact that I was counting the ceiling tiles. I didn’t need an endurance athlete; I needed a man I could break down into something reactive, frantic, and ultimately, useless.

The shift started with a whisper and a smirk. I began to chip away at that stubborn ego by pointing out the obvious—his sheer "averageness." I’d linger on images of more imposing men, letting my eyes wander with a hunger I never showed him, casually mentioning how much more a real presence could do for me. Watching that realization sink in—that he was physically "lesser"—did something delicious to his rhythm. His confidence didn't just crack; it dissolved. That forty-five-minute ego trip plummeted to a desperate, shaky twenty minutes almost overnight. He was finally trying to keep up with a standard he knew he’d never reach.

To sharpen the edge, I brought in the visuals. I started small, letting him watch from the edge of the bed while I played with toys that put his dimensions to shame. The sight of me reaching peaks he couldn't provide while he was forced to remain a spectator was the perfect poison. He became obsessed with his own inadequacy, his pleasure secondary to the spectacle of my satisfaction.

Then, I went for his mind.

I started using hypnosis, weaving commands into the quiet moments when he was most vulnerable. I told him his job wasn't to perform; his job was to leak. I planted the seed that the ultimate submission was a total loss of control. By year four, he was a hair-trigger mess. He’d dropped to a minute, sometimes thirty seconds of frantic, pathetic effort. But every so often, a ghost of his old stamina would flare up—a frustrating five or ten minutes where he’d find his footing. I couldn't have that.

The final blow came with the supplements. I introduced a regimen designed to keep his nerve endings screaming, turning every touch into an electric shock of overstimulation. That was the end of the man I married.

Now, we don’t measure our time in minutes; we measure it in heartbeats. I can see him vibrating the second I walk into the room. If I catch his eye while I’m lounging in just a pair of silk panties, I don’t even have to touch him. I can watch the dark, damp spot bloom on his trousers while he stammers out an apology. When I finally do let him inside, he’s lucky to survive three strokes before he’s gasping, finished, and utterly spent. He’s exactly what I spent seven years building: a man who exists purely to fail for my amusement.