Saturday Night: Her Whispered Fantasies Make Me Hard

I love how hard you get when we talk about me fucking another guy. It’s a sentence that haunts me, a cruel reminder of the power she holds. She lies there, her red hair splayed across the pillow, eyes locked on mine with a neutral gaze that’s somehow more devastating than any smirk. Her blue sleeveless top hugs her curves, hinting at the body I’m not allowed to touch.

What Does Her Silence Hide?

Her silence is a weapon, sharper than any word. I can almost hear the unspoken thoughts, the fantasies she’s spinning in her head. She’s not just lying there; she’s plotting, scheming, deciding how to use me next. The room is bright, but it’s her eyes that blind me, piercing through the shadows of my insecurities.

The Weight of Her Words: A Cuckold’s Burden

The text overlay, ‘I love how hard you get when we talk about me fucking another guy,’ is a constant reminder of my place. It’s not just a phrase; it’s a command, a taunt, a promise. I’m hard, yes, but it’s a painful hardness, a throbbing ache that won’t subside. She knows it, and she uses it, twisting my desire into a tool for her pleasure. The blue surface she rests on is a stark contrast to the darkness in her eyes, a darkness that swallows me whole.And so, I sit here, a cuckold in every sense of the word, my mind racing with images of her with another man. It’s a torment, a delicious agony that she feeds on. I’m her plaything, her puppet, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Her words, my agony—it’s a cycle I can’t break, a dance I’m forever trapped in.