A short story inspired from another forum post. Just a fantasy sadly, but one I obsess about often.
The weight of his presence alone makes my knees weak. He doesn’t need to push me down—I sink to the floor on my own, the carpet rough against my bare knees. He’s holding them up, a scrap of lace she wore yesterday, and his nostrils flare as he drinks her in.
“Christ,” he whispers, a dark smile playing on his lips. “You can *taste* her sweetness in the air. I know this smell. It’s the smell of a woman who’s been touched.” He looks down at me, his eyes predatory. “You never get this close, do you? You smell the laundry. I smell *her*.”
He steps forward, the bulge in his jeans level with my face. Her knickers are still pressed to his nose as he uses his other hand to unzip himself. He’s already thick and hard, veined and heavy—a superior weapon. The comparison isn’t even a thought; it’s a deep, shameful knowing in my gut.
“This is what her scent does,” he says, guiding himself past my lips. “It makes me hard for *her*. You’re just the convenient hole I use to get there.”
The stretch of him, the way he owns my mouth so completely, turns my bones to water. I’m not a man here. I’m a trembling vessel for his lust for my wife. He fucks my face in a steady, arrogant rhythm, each thrust pushing a soft grunt from him. He talks to me around his own pleasure, his voice low and filthy.
“Every time you kiss her now, you’ll remember my cock was here first. You’ll smell her and know I’ve claimed that scent. It’s mine now. Just like this throat is mine.”
His free hand fists in my hair, holding me still for his deepest, most punishing stroke. I gag, my eyes watering, and he moans—a sound of pure conquest.
“Yeah, take it, you sissy bitch. Take it for the man who *really* knows your woman.”
The peak hits him hard. He tears himself from my mouth with a wet sound, and the first hot jet stripes across my cheek. The second splatters my nose and eyelids. He keeps coming, painting my face with thick, possessive ropes, marking me as his cuck. As his property. My submission is complete, written in the mess on my skin.
When he’s done, he tucks himself away, calm and composed. He drops her damp knickers onto my head, where they cling to my hair.
“Keep them,” he says, his voice now cold and detached. “A souvenir. Remember whose bitch you are whenever you smell her.”
Then he’s gone. I’m left kneeling in the silence, her scent and his seed mingling on my skin, my weakness absolute, his dominance sealed in the filth on my face.
More than happy to hear feedback from anyone who’s experienced something like this is real life, either the Dom or cuck. Just please no one liners, as I genuinely like to hear about your experiences and how it made you feel. |
