It Won’t Be the First Time, and It Won’t Be the Last…

The bracelet on her wrist glints under the harsh room light, a stark contrast to the dimly lit background. It’s a reminder of the power she holds, the control she wields over me. Her high heels click against the floor as she moves, each step echoing the inevitability of what’s to come. The ring on her finger, a symbol of our union, now feels like a shackle, binding me to this humiliation. She’s nearly nude, her body on display, ready for the bull who stands beside her, fully clothed, holding a folded piece of material. It’s a towel, I realize, for when he’s done with her. The checkered wall behind them, adorned with framed art, seems to mock me, a backdrop to my degradation.

When the Bull Takes Control

The bull’s presence is commanding, his dark pants and black jacket exuding an air of dominance. He holds the towel casually, as if this is just another night, another conquest. And for him, it is. But for me, it’s a nightmare I can’t wake from. The luggage to the right, a reminder of her impending departure, of the journey she’s about to embark on with him. The text overlaid on the image, a cruel joke, a taunt. ‘It won’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last…’ Her words echo in my mind, a constant reminder of my place. I’m the cuckold, the one who watches, who waits, who endures. The lighting focuses on them, casting them in a harsh, unflattering glow, but they don’t care. They’re beyond that, beyond shame, beyond anything but their own pleasure. And I’m left here, in the shadows, a silent witness to my own humiliation.The mural on the wall, partially obscured by the bull, seems to whisper secrets, stories of past encounters, past humiliations. It’s a tapestry of my pain, woven into the very fabric of this room. The beige, textured, checkered wall, a witness to countless acts, countless degradations. And now, it will bear witness to another. The camera captures them from the front, the bull slightly closer, his presence overwhelming. He’s the star of this show, the one who will take center stage, who will claim what is rightfully his. And I? I’m the supporting act, the one who sits and watches, who enjoys the show, as the text so cruelly suggests. It’s a role I’ve played before, and one I’ll play again. It’s the consequence of loving a woman like her, a woman who demands everything, who takes everything, who leaves me with nothing but the echoes of her pleasure and the weight of my own humiliation.