Other Girls

(I should have titled this one “things were complicated with my ex”. I’ve only ever shared a few stories about cucking or cuckqueaning in the past, but it’s one of those kinks that existed secretly in my head looooooong before I ever admitted it to a partner. It still feels like a really vulnerable thing, but I’ve lurked enough cuckquean blogs on tumblr to know I’m not alone.)

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“Are all the girls you fuck whiners?” I knew the answer before I asked. I know his type. He likes fussy girls like me.

“Of course they are baby,” he says through deep grunts. He’s fucking me hard and this is what I’m thinking of, the other girls he fucks.

I hate it but it turns me on, I wish I was thinking of something else, watching his shoulders flex as he thrusts into me. I’m thinking of them, the ones with names but no faces, the ones I’ve never met, the ones we don’t really talk about. The ones that are none of my business.

I know he loves me best, I know I’m his girl, but I wish I knew what it was like when I’m not there. I want to be a fly on the wall and watch how he fucks someone else. I want to hear how he talks, what he says, his tone. What does he call them? Is he shy? Reserved? Is he assertive like he is with me? Does he gasp when they take off their clothes? Does he kiss them while he’s inside of them, rest his forehead against theirs.

“When’s the last time you got your ass fucked baby?” I pouted a little. “Last month when you did it,” was my honest reply. “Good, time to do it again,” he whispered as he pulled me closer. I wanted to ask him the same question. I wanted to know when was the last time he took what he wanted like this? When did he last get this treat? But I was afraid of the answer. I wanted it to be me, I wanted to know I was the one who gave him all the depraved things he needed. But I knew better. I know what he likes, he likes “things you shouldn’t do”. All kinds of girls do “things you shouldn’t do”. I’m not special.

One time he made me wear another girl’s shirt while he fucked me. She’d left it behind, along with her swimsuit and deodorant, which I’d noticed in the drawer. He knew it was just the kind of twisted little thing that would drive me crazy. The kind of thing I would hate to admit I enjoyed. The kind of thing I would think about for months when I was alone with my hitachi trying to see stars.

“This is so wrong,” he said, as he slipped the black tank top over my head, his laugh was nervous. But I could see through his jeans that his cock was hard. I felt like I might cry, but I still wanted to go through with it. It’s complicated. With us it was always complicated. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. And I was. I wanted it. I wanted exactly what we’d planned. I wanted him to hit me while I wore it, I wanted him to grab it as leverage while he fucked me into the mattress and talked about how good she felt. I wanted all kinds of fucked up things.

It’s delicate when you share your most shameful thoughts with someone, when they hold them safe and understand, and maybe exploit them a little when the time is right. We’re all strange creatures.