I’m lying here, shirtless, my heart pounding as I stare at the ceiling. The weight of another man on top of me, his body pressing down, is a constant reminder of my place. I can feel the fabric of my black pants against my skin, a thin barrier between me and the reality of my wife’s hotwife adventures. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of the nightstand lamp casting shadows that dance across the walls. The cushion beneath me is a small comfort, but it can’t ease the ache in my chest. I’m a cuckold, a willing participant in my wife’s sexual escapades, and the thought of her with another man, of her being used and satisfied, is both my greatest pleasure and my deepest torment.
The Weight of Submission: A Cuckold’s Reality
I can hear the faint sounds of her moans, carried through the walls, a symphony of her pleasure. It’s a sound that both excites and humiliates me. I’m trapped here, pinned beneath the weight of another man, my own desires a distant memory. The text on the wall, ‘Even when they get older, a good slut remains a good slut,’ is a cruel reminder of my wife’s nature. She’s a hotwife, a slut for other men, and I’m her cuckold, the one who watches and waits. The question ‘What is your wife doing now?’ echoes in my mind, a constant taunt. I know exactly what she’s doing, and the knowledge is both thrilling and agonizing. I’m a cuckold, and this is my reality, a reality I wouldn’t trade for anything.






