Can you picture it? Feel it in your nerves and on your skin? What it would be like to be cucked by me?
To pay for my date and and get a single picture of a manicured foot. To know that foot has been kissed by him, will be stroked by him, will be felt on his chest, hooked behind his head, pressed against him—and never you.
To sit by your phone, waiting to reimburse our vacation expenses, knowing he is with me, knowing you are not. He is holding my hand as we stroll the cobbled alleys of Paris. He is watching me close my eyes in ecstasy, savoring every bite of the souffle you bought. He is pressing a thumb to my lips and then kissing them under the glow of an old streetlight.
He is taking me home.
You get a picture of the souffle. You get to know what we’re up to. And you sit in your dark little room and stroke and wish and long…always longing, never touching, never seeing. Never there.
But your money is there. Your mind is there.
And you know that’s the closest you’ll ever get.
Which is why you’re hard. It’s why you can’t stop.
It’s why you’re in my inbox, begging to pay for the lingerie he will remove with his teeth.