What the Cuck

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He is out on a date with her. I’ve had a glass of wine, done some writing. We’ve done this dance before. He’s doing his thing, I’m doing mine. So far, so good.

But then I look at the clock, and it’s somehow both earlier and later than I think it is. I have passed as much time as is effortless, and now the minutes will be work. The insecurity starts with a stray thought, a relatively harmless one. I bet he’s having a good time.

And then I’m imagining her mouth on his cock. Her looking up and giving him a mischievous grin as she goes to work, engulfs him.

I bet she does something special with her tongue that you can’t. She’s probably more fun in bed than you. Everyone knows this girl can cum just from kissing.

His eyes are rolling back into his head, making those unrestrained wild noises he makes when he’s completely mad with desire.

She can cum just from neck kisses.

He’s bucking his hips, burying himself deep into her throat.

She can cum just walking down the street. She’s an orgasm machine. And with lips like hers? This is the best blow job of his life.

The sickness and the dread mix with arousal. I run upstairs, and I fall back onto the bed, fish through my bedside table drawer. My secondary vibrator – the one that’s like a tease. The one I have to thrust in hard and push forward on to get anywhere.The vibe is in me and I’m bucking. All their faces flashing before me. All the girls, the ones that could even possibly be considered “competition.” Everyone he’s ever been with or is currently. Everyone that I know he’s been attracted to. The woman sucking him becomes each of these girls in turn, moving through all these faces in an amazing montage. I’m comparing myself to each and every one and coming up short.

Her job is better than yours. She’s thinner than you. She’s sweeter than you. She knows more about astronomy. He’s liked her for a lot longer than he’s even known you.

It’s a series of fights I can’t win. It makes me fuck the vibe harder, pushing back against that sharp desperate gnawing. It hurts, in every possible way, and moment to moment, I don’t know if it’s a bad or good hurt – I just know it’s intense.

His cock explodes into her mouth. It is the most amazing blow job of his life. I know I can’t compare.

My muscles seize around the vibrator, and I have an orgasm so intense I feel like I’m in mortal danger. Dizzy, I lie in the bed, smirking, reflecting.

I glance at the clock. I’ve killed about 20 minutes.

Back downstairs. Another glass of wine. I busy myself for a bit, and then another harmless thought hits me that slides down the path to insecurity, and the hot ache returns. Back to the bedroom, stabbing my desire to death with the vibe. Rinse, repeat.

When he does return, it’s late. We catch up on what happened on his date (dinner, make out, no sex), and then I’m all dirty talk and hands all over him. I need to impale myself on him. As I ride him, I’m still thinking about losing in every conceivable match-up, and it feels so exquisitely good and terrible that before I know it, I’m dying from the orgasm.

I sleep better than I have in ages. My insides feel perfect.

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