The weight of the pillow presses down on my chest, a cruel reminder of the hands that aren’t mine. Her hands, those traitorous fingers, are wrapped around something that’s not me. I can feel the cool plastic of the ID card against my skin, a mocking echo of her identity. Hélène, the name taunts me, a whisper of betrayal. The room spins, or maybe it’s just my mind, reeling from the sight of her, half-naked and exposed, her body a canvas of humiliation. And there, in the corner, the words ‘BLOW JOB IS BETTER THAN NO JOB’ stare back at me, a cruel joke etched in neon.
Certified Humiliation
The green box, labeled ‘Claro’, drips with something that’s not just liquid. It’s a symbol, a testament to her desires, her needs that I can’t fulfill. ‘Certified!’ it screams, a badge of honor for the man who’s not me. The room is a stage, and I’m the unwilling audience, forced to watch as she parades her conquests. The hands, those foreign hands, move with a familiarity that guts me. They know her, they own her, and I’m left with the echo of her laughter, a sound that’s both sweet and bitter. The bed, once a sanctuary, is now a battlefield, and I’m the defeated soldier, lying in the ruins of my pride.
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