cucking

Let’s start here: I love a cuck. I love to tease. I love to push your buttons. I love to know that you know it’s date night and I’m having a series of orgasms at someone else’s hands.

Here’s what I don’t love: when you say a man is my alpha.

Even just typing that, I barfed in my mouth a little.

First off, go fucking unsubscribe from the brain-rot influencers who taught you that word. Repeating it makes you look stupid.

Because all it takes is a few minutes of research to find out where the term came from—and that it’s been debunked.

The idea of alphas began with a scientist studying wolves. The pack had an alpha, he said. The strongest wolf. The main wolf. The boss. The “dominant” wolf.

He published a book on it. And then realized he was wrong and spent his entire life trying to undo the damage.

Because, news flash #1: wolves don’t have alphas. He was observing a family. The parents trying to keep their kids safe, teach them, guide them.

News flash #2: he was observing captive wolves—and very quickly observed that wolves don’t behave the same way in the wild. It’s like saying we can study a prison population and use that study to talk about how people behave outside prison. These two things are not the same.

And news flash #3: even if neither of those things were true, you are not a wolf. You are not a bear. You are not a lion. And you are not a lobster. If every animal behavior were part of humanity, hoo boy would life be different. Hamsters eat their babies. Squid *punch sperm into their bros* (go look it up). Show a dog a piece of roadkill and he’ll probably roll around on it. Wolf behavior isn’t any more predictive of human behavior than any of those examples.

The reason you think it is is incel culture. That’s where the talk of alphas and betas in the world of men took off. So feel free to be embarassed that you adopted the idea uncritically.

Just using the word alpha drops my estimate on your intelligence. And thinking I would let a man dominate me drops it further.

When I say I love submissive men, I fucking mean that shit. I mean that in my heart and my soul and my bedroom. I mean that the love of my life is the same man who comes over almost daily to pick dog poop out of my yard, who curls up after a long day with his head in my lap, who was the first person to collar himself with me. He is the one granted entry to the most sacred spaces of heart, mind, and body. Not because he is in charge, but precisely because he’s strong enough, centered enough in his masculinity and authenticity to let go of that.

He is not having his way with me; I am having my way with him.

Nobody is the alpha (because that shit is stupid). But I am the boss. The holder of space. The lap he rests his head on. The safe space where he can take off his mask. The Goddess at the center of the universe.

Not every woman is submissive for “the right man.” The alpha bros are not our fantasy. They are yours. And fantasy is the operative word.

You want to admit my partner is a better man than you? You want to serve him? You want to serve us together? Go for it. But do not co-opt me into the patriarchal fantasy that women are all secretly submissive for some sort of extra-masculine bro. I do not consent to be dominated—even in your fantasy and even not by you.

I am his boss and yours. That is kinky for both of you.

I am not conquerable—period. And frankly, that reality is healing if you’ll let it be. You are not submissive because you are less. You are not submissive because someone else is a better man. You are submissive because you are submissive—no value judgement attached.

And if you want to play humiliated cuck? Well, when I say you can’t please me like he does, it’s not because he’s alpha or dom. It’s because of choices he makes every single day. Which means when you don’t measure up? That’s all choices too. And I can push your buttons even harder when we take “I’m just this way and nothing I can do about it” well and truly off the table.

It was late when he left my apartment last night. Left me skin tingling, hair wild, satisfied, and half-asleep. And left not only me but an accidental memento.

The ring that fits his pinkie finger and is too big for my thumb.

I found it on the rumpled comforter. Knocked from his finger when his hands were busy. Left behind in a moment of pure focus that couldn’t be bothered to notice a ring slipping over a knuckle.

I threaded it onto my necklace, wearing the memory of him against my heart the whole day. A memory of whispered worship, fingernails on tender skin, lips against soles, my nipple between his fingers.

Does it make you hard, little cuck, knowing you’ll never have me and hearing about how he has? Seeing me in his ring, knowing that I found it in my bed. Knowing why I found it there.

And the closest you’ll get to any of it is this story. The closest you’ll get is when you give in to your urges and pay for the coconut oil he’ll rub into my skin, the stockings he’ll roll slowly down, the chocolate he’ll place on my tongue, letting his thumb linger, savoring the feel of me. Tongue, then lips, then skin…

“I want to serve you and your alpha,” you say.

And I cackle. Because what makes you think I’d let any man dominate me?

He is not my alpha. He is my first and best worshipper.

The one who lays his head in my lap and feels my fingernails against his scalp. Who hears me command “rest” and falls asleep in my arms.

The one who texts me begging to clean up my house after girls night.

The one who first put on a collar. Who sits at my feet.

He is the little spoon twice my size, my tall, masculine puppy, the chosen one precisely because he doesn’t try to perform society’s ideas about alpha masculinity.

He doesn’t need to. He’s secure. Himself. Held. Known.

Worshipper. Pet. Lover. Loved.

He is the one women trust because they know I wouldn’t allow toxicity in my sacred space.

And he is the one in my sacred space. Eating strawberries from my garden. Laughing at my jokes in person. Whispering his truths with a head on my chest. Giving me his full weight and knowing I will not be crushed by it. Feeling my foot hook around his head, my breasts pressed against his chest, my teeth on his lips.

He may be your alpha. He may be your king. He may be your goal. The one you aspire to.

But he is not my alpha. He is simply mine.

And when I cuck you, you will know where the power rests.

It is not with any man.