Back in the early 2000s, researchers at SUNY Albany built a fake vagina, filled it with a mixture meant to simulate another man’s load, then thrust a realistic dildo in and out while measuring what came back out. What they found was almost indecently efficient: that flared coronal ridge acts like a natural scraper. Each deep stroke scoops and displaces the previous guy’s semen, clearing the way for the current one. 

Evolution apparently spent a long time designing a better cum-displacement tool.    
I think about that every time I slide back into my wife after she’s been with someone else.

There’s something primal and filthy about it—knowing the shape of me is literally built to erase what came before. The first few strokes always feel different. Fuller. Slippery in a way that isn’t just her. I go deeper than usual, slow and deliberate, letting that ridge do its work. Pulling out and watching the mix of us drip, then pushing back in harder. 

Reclaiming. Overwriting. Marking the territory the only way biology ever intended.

By the time I’m close, it’s no longer about competition. It’s about ownership. About filling her so thoroughly that whatever was left of him gets pushed aside, diluted, replaced. When I finally come, I stay buried, grinding that ridge against her, making damn sure every last drop finds its place.    
She always clenches around me harder when she knows what I’m doing. She likes being reclaimed just as much as I like doing it.

Nature didn’t invent the perfect shape for gentle lovemaking. It invented a tool for winning. And some nights, that knowledge alone is enough to make me fuck her like I’m trying to rewrite history one stroke at a time.

The ridge on the head of a cock isn’t just there for decoration.