I’m sitting here, my heart pounding as I stare at the text on her dress: ‘Do you really think you can handle watching me take a big cock?’ It’s not just a question; it’s a fucking dare. She knows I can’t handle it, that I’m her cuckold, her little bitch who watches as she gets pounded by real men. The dress is thin, almost see-through, and I can make out the curves of her body, the shadows of her nipples. She’s teasing me, taunting me with the promise of her infidelity. I’m hard, aching, but it’s not with desire—it’s with humiliation. She’s going to fuck him, and I’ll be here, watching, my cock throbbing with need and shame. It’s not just about the sex; it’s about the power she has over me, the way she can reduce me to nothing with a single glance. I’m her cuck, her plaything, and she knows it. The text on her dress is a fucking brand, a mark of ownership, and I’m her property, her little bitch who lives to serve her pleasure.