I’m on my knees, my hands gripping her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers. Her bare chest heaves with each breath, and I can see the glistening of his cum slowly dripping from her pussy. The sight of it, the reality of it, sends a mix of humiliation and arousal through me. I can almost taste the saltiness of it, the evidence of their passion, as it drips down her thighs. Her smile, a mix of satisfaction and teasing, only deepens the ache in my chest. I’m a cuckold, and this is my reality.
Her Body Tells the Story of Their Encounter
The kitchen, once a place of mundane routines, is now a stage for my humiliation. Her bare chest, flushed with the heat of their fucking, is a testament to the intensity of their encounter. The way she stands, legs slightly apart, is a silent invitation to the mess he left behind. I can almost hear the echo of their laughter, the sound of their bodies slapping together, as I kneel here, a silent witness to their pleasure. The text overlay, ‘SORRY, BABY! GREG DIDN’T PULL OUT IN TIME!’, is a cruel reminder of the power dynamics at play. I’m the cuckold, the one left to clean up the mess, both literally and figuratively. Yet, there’s a strange satisfaction in it, a perverse pleasure in being the one who bears witness to her ecstasy.



