The tension in the room is palpable, a thick, almost tangible force that presses against my chest. I’m on my knees, the wooden floorboards hard and unforgiving beneath me. The man stands before me, his back to the camera, a silhouette of dominance and control. I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to. His presence is enough, a constant reminder of the power he holds over me, over us. The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic outside, a world away from this intimate, charged moment.
The Unspoken Command
His voice is low, a command that doesn’t need words. I know what’s expected of me, what I’m here for. The satin of his garment brushes against my skin as he moves, a soft, teasing touch that sends a shiver down my spine. I’m fully clothed, a stark contrast to his half-naked state, a reminder of my role, my place. The map on the wall, a framed reminder of a world beyond these four walls, seems to mock me, a symbol of the vastness of my submission. The thought of her, my wife, meeting him on the street, her desire igniting in that chance encounter, fuels the fire of my humiliation. Now, she’s giving herself to him, her body, her pleasure, her everything. The image of them together, her moans, his satisfaction, plays in my mind like a cruel movie, a loop of my own making. I’m here, a silent witness, a willing participant in this dance of desire and degradation. The room is a stage, and I’m the supporting actor, my role clearly defined. The standing man, the bull, the one who takes, who commands, who owns. And me, the cuckold, the one who gives, who obeys, who serves. The power dynamic is clear, the roles unspoken but understood. I’m here because I choose to be, because this is what I crave, what I need. The tension, the humiliation, the submission, it’s all part of the game, a game I play willingly, eagerly, desperately.






