sit back, cuck. i get pleased while you just ache for it 💋
The Rules of the Game
You don’t get to touch me anymore.
Not like he does.
You sit in that chair—the one by the window, the one I let you sit in—and you watch. That’s your role now. Observer. Witness. A spectator to your own irrelevance.
I stretch out on the bed, my skin glowing under the dim light, and glance at you over my shoulder.
“Comfortable?” I ask, sweet as poisoned honey.
You nod, throat bobbing. You don’t trust yourself to speak.
Good.
The First Time You Understood
It wasn’t always like this.
Once, you were the one who made me gasp. Once, your hands were the ones I reached for in the dark.
But then he happened.
Taller. Rougher. Hungrier.
The first time you saw his fingers dig into my hips, his teeth on my neck, my back arching—not for you, never for you again—something inside you cracked.
And I loved it.
The Sound of Your Silence
He doesn’t even acknowledge you.
Why would he? You’re furniture. A prop. A ghost haunting your own marriage.
I, on the other hand, acknowledge you. I make sure you see everything.
The way his grip leaves marks.
The way I bite my lip—not to stay quiet, but to make sure you hear the whimper.
The way I look right at you when he makes me come.
“You remember what that feels like, don’t you?” I murmur after, breathless.
You don’t answer.
You don’t have to.
The Best Part
The best part isn’t his hands on me.
It isn’t the way he ruins me so thoroughly I forget my own name.
It’s the way you twitch in that chair when I moan his name instead of yours.
It’s the way your fingers dig into your own thighs because you can’t dig them into me.
It’s the way you ache.
And the best part?
You chose this.
The Final Twist
One day, you’ll break.
You’ll snap. You’ll beg. You’ll get on your knees and plead for just one more chance to touch me.
And I’ll smile, tilt my head, and say—
“Oh, cuck… you really thought this was negotiable?”
The End.
