Can She Handle the Bull’s Moves at the Hotel Bar?

The polka-dotted top she’s wearing, it’s not just a top, it’s a fucking statement. It’s like she’s daring me, daring the world, to see her as more than just a cuckold’s wife. And I’m here, lying on this goddamn couch, watching her, wondering if she’s gonna do it. Flirt with some hot guy at the hotel bar. What if she does? What if she takes it further? The thought alone makes my stomach churn, but there’s a sick thrill in it too. I’m her cuck, her willing participant in this twisted game.

Her Contemplation, My Agony

Her face, it’s a mix of curiosity and defiance. She’s leaning on her arm, legs crossed, like she’s got all the fucking time in the world. And maybe she does. Maybe she’s gonna go out there and make me watch as she flirts, as she teases, as she drives some other guy wild. The room is quiet, but my mind is screaming. What if she brings him back here? What if she lets him touch her, kiss her, fuck her right in front of me? The thought is degrading, humiliating, and yet, I’m hard as a rock thinking about it. It’s my fucking kink, my twisted desire. The background is a blur, but I can see another figure, another person in the room. Maybe it’s her bull, her hot guy, waiting in the wings. Waiting to take her, to use her, to make me watch. The lighting is soft, but the atmosphere is electric. I can feel the tension, the anticipation. She’s gonna do it. She’s gonna go flirt, and I’m gonna be here, waiting, watching, wanting. It’s a fucking mess, but it’s our mess. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.