He Set Up Camp

Unpack the shame, husband. Lay it out with the stakes and supplies, right where it belongs. You brought all the gear. I brought the real reason we're here.

While you were sweating over firewood and bragging about your wilderness skills, I was texting the man who's going to make you feel like nothing. I told you this trip was about reconnecting. It is—for me and him. You? You're the errand boy. The setup crew. The discarded husband who tags along like baggage no one wants to carry.

You pitched the shelter. I sent the location. You lit the fire. I waxed for another man. You made dinner. I made plans to forget you exist. And once I'm stuffed full of the cock I actually want, I won't be needing your lukewarm hot dogs, either.

You still don't get it, do you? This isn't about romance. It's not even about sex. It's about knowing your place. There's a hierarchy here, and you're at the bottom, chewing on crumbs while I get split open by a man who doesn't beg for permission to touch me. He earns it. And he takes it.

I told you to pack light. You thought I meant gear. No. I meant your pride. I don't need it weighing down the car, taking up space in my bedroll. You weren't invited here as a partner. You were brought along as a witness. A spectator to your own failure.

And you'll sit outside while it happens. You'll hear the laughter, the moans, the way I whisper more just loud enough for your shame to feed on it. Every time I cry out, it'll cut deeper. Every breath I lose to pleasure will echo in that empty little brain of yours until you can't tell if you're hard from humiliation or just broken.

You'll strain to hear it through nylon. You'll picture what you can't see: my nails on his back, my thighs shaking, his voice in my ear telling me how much tighter I am than his last girl. And I'll tell him how easy it was—how pathetic you looked carrying the cooler, how eager you were to play the doting fool.

You don't need a sleeping bag tonight. You won't be sleeping. You'll be curled up outside like the loyal little mutt you are, listening to me get fucked in the same space you once fantasized about making love. But love was never the point, was it?

Control is.

And I own yours completely.

You'll sit in the dark, trying not to touch yourself. I hope you fail. I hope you cum in your pants like the desperate little failure you've always been, and I hope it makes you cry. Because you'll know what it means—that you can't even jerk off like a man. You need humiliation. You need this. You need me, pleased by someone stronger, louder, better.

You'll wait for morning. It'll never come fast enough. And when it does, you'll pretend nothing happened. You'll make coffee like you weren't aching in the dirt all night. I'll emerge glowing, used, dripping satisfaction. I'll wear his shirt. I won't be wearing panties.

And he? He'll stretch, satisfied, maybe slap my ass right in front of you before heading to the lake to rinse off. I won't stop him. I won't even blink. Because he can. Because I want him to.

And you?

You'll ask if I slept well.

I'll say nothing.

Maybe later I'll let you join us on the trail—walking ten paces behind while I suck on his water bottle and laugh at his stories. Maybe I'll let you carry our packs while he pulls my hair behind a tree. Or maybe I'll leave you at camp, balls aching, lips dry, replaying every sound from the night before until you hate yourself for how much you loved it.

I might bring you back inside afterward—not to clean, not to join. Just to kneel where he took me. Smell it. Breathe it in. Let your brain melt under the weight of everything you'll never deserve.

That's your reward for being so obedient.

He Set Up Camp by GoddessVelvetV

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