cucking

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.