His Balls, My Breakfast: A Cuckold’s Morning Ritual

I can still hear it, the sound of his balls slapping against her mouth. It’s a rhythm I’ve grown used to, a morning symphony that starts my day. The tile floor is cold beneath me, but it’s nothing compared to the chill that runs down my spine as I watch. His chin rests on her breast, a casual, almost lazy pose, but there’s nothing lazy about the way he’s fucking her face. She’s taking it all, like she always does, her eyes closed, lost in the moment. And I’m here, watching, listening, feeling the weight of my own inadequacy. It’s a strange kind of torture, this routine, but it’s mine. I can’t look away, even if I wanted to.

The Sound of Submission

The sound of his balls against her skin, it’s a sound that’s become a part of me. It’s a reminder of my place, of the power he holds over us both. I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling. Is she happy? Is she satisfied? Or is she just going through the motions, like I am? The questions swirl in my head, but I don’t have the answers. All I know is the sound, the rhythm, the cold tile beneath me. And the knowledge that this is my reality, my morning ritual.

What Does She Hear?

What does she hear when she’s like this? Is it just the sound of his pleasure, or is there something more? Something deeper, something that connects them in a way I can’t understand? I want to ask her, to know, but I’m afraid of the answer. Afraid that it will shatter the fragile balance of our arrangement. So I stay silent, watching, listening, feeling the weight of my own thoughts. The bathroom is quiet, except for the sounds of their pleasure, and the occasional clink of metal against tile. It’s a sound that’s become a part of my life, a part of who I am. And I can’t escape it, even if I wanted to. But, you know, it’s not all bad. There’s a certain comfort in the routine, in the familiarity of it all. It’s a strange kind of peace, a strange kind of acceptance. And as I sit here, listening to the sounds of their pleasure, I can’t help but feel a sense of belonging. It’s a twisted kind of belonging, but it’s mine. And in the end, isn’t that what matters most? The knowledge that this is my place, my role, my reality. And I’m okay with that. Actually, I’m more than okay. I’m content. In a strange, twisted way, I’m content with the sounds of his balls making my breakfast.