Becoming a Cuckquean Pt. 01

You've been with him long enough to know what normal used to feel like.

The way his eyes used to linger. The way he'd reach for your hand, your hip, your hair. The way he'd touch you just because he could, not because he was expected to. It used to feel so natural. So easy. Like desire was something that didn't need asking for.

Now?

Now it's been seventeen days since he's touched you.

You count them.

You try not to. You tell yourself not to be that kind of woman -- the bitter, pathetic one who tallies every missed kiss like a diary of failure. But you can't help it. You lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he even notices the space between your bodies. You used to sleep tangled up together. Now there's a full pillow's width between you.

Sometimes he turns his back. Sometimes he doesn't even say goodnight.

You tell yourself it's stress. Work. Bills. The kids. Anything but the truth scratching at the inside of your skull.

He doesn't want you anymore.

And why would he?

You've seen yourself lately.

You didn't bounce back after the second baby. You never lost the weight. Your stomach hangs in folds now, soft and useless. Your breasts -- once full, round, pretty -- now sag against your chest, stretch marks tracing long, pale scars down the sides. Your thighs rub together when you walk. You can't wear any of your old jeans. Even your face looks different now. Puffier. Rounder. Tired.

You're not the woman he married.

You know it. And you think maybe... maybe he knows it too.

He's always polite. Always kind. That's what makes it worse. He never says anything cruel. Never tells you what you already believe about yourself. He just stops reaching. Stops looking. Stops wanting.

He still kisses you goodbye. But it's quick now. Barely a brush. Like a habit, not a hunger.

You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror one morning and feel a slow wave of disgust crawl through your gut. You lift your shirt, look at your stomach in the dim light, and pinch the soft skin between your fingers. You jiggle it. You stare at it like it betrayed you.

When did you become this?

You try to fight it.

You start skipping breakfast. You throw away the biscuits you used to hide in the top cupboard. You order cheap yoga mats online, work out in the living room while the kids nap. You sweat and gasp through thirty-minute videos that leave your legs shaking, your heart pounding, and your face blotchy and red.

But when he comes home, he doesn't notice.

He doesn't say anything.

He doesn't even glance at you.

You dress up for him on a Saturday night. Just for dinner in. Nothing fancy. You put on a dress that used to make him stare. It barely fits. It clings in the wrong places. Rides up where it shouldn't. But you try. You fix your hair. You do your makeup. You spray perfume behind your ears like it still matters.

He smiles when he sees you.

But it's the kind of smile you'd give your mum when she asks how she looks.

He says, "You look nice."

And then sits down and scrolls through his phone for half the meal.

You barely touch your food.

That night, you slip into bed in the dress. You leave it on, just the top unzipped, exposing the better parts of what used to be your body. You reach for him. Slide your hand across his stomach. Try to touch him like you used to.

He says he's tired.

Turns over.

And just like that -- the silence wraps around you again.

You lie there, burning.

Not just with humiliation, but shame. Grief, even. For the woman you used to be. For the way he used to want you. For the way you used to feel proud to undress in front of him. Now you can barely look at your own body in the mirror without wincing.

You remember once -- years ago -- him lifting you onto the counter in the kitchen, his hands gripping your thighs like he couldn't wait. You remember how he used to moan into your neck, tell you how good you felt, how perfect you were, how no one turned him on like you did.

Now he doesn't even get hard when you kiss him.

You lie awake most nights now.

He sleeps easily. Peacefully.

You lie there tracing every detail -- every change in routine, every smile that felt just a little too forced. The way he takes his phone into the shower now. The new cologne he never mentioned. The gym bag in the car even though he hasn't mentioned working out.

You haven't said anything.

You don't want to be that woman -- the jealous one, the paranoid one.

But the thought sits in your stomach like spoiled meat.

You wonder who she is.

You wonder what she looks like.

And you already know: she's younger. Slimmer. She has clear skin and perkier tits and a stomach she doesn't have to hide. Her clothes fit. Her laugh is effortless. She doesn't apologize when she takes off her shirt. She doesn't flinch when she undresses in front of a man.

She doesn't smell like breastmilk and stress and exhaustion.

She smells like perfume and youth and everything you can't compete with anymore.

You picture them together sometimes. When you're home alone. When the kids are at school and the house is quiet. You close the bedroom door and lie back on the bed and imagine what he's doing. Where he is. What he's touching.

And sometimes -- you touch yourself.

Not because it feels good.

But because you need to remember what it's like to be wanted. Even if only in your head. Even if only by a man who's no longer touching you.

You cum fast. Quiet. Sad.

You never feel better afterward.

The worst part is... you don't even hate him for it.

If he is cheating -- if he is touching someone else -- you almost feel like you understand. You are ruined. Your body is a mess. You're always tired. You never feel sexy. You can't even fake confidence anymore.

Maybe this is what happens.

Maybe this is what you become when you let yourself go. When you trade lace underwear for maternity pants and Friday night sex for bath time and bedtime stories.

Maybe you should just be grateful he still comes home to you at all.

Maybe you don't deserve more.

You wouldn't fuck you either.

So you keep smiling. Keep cooking. Keep folding his clothes and pretending not to notice the new underwear that isn't yours. You keep pretending the smell of another woman on his shirt is detergent. You keep telling yourself the lipstick stain on the coffee mug was yours.

Because it's easier than hearing him say it.

That you're not enough anymore.

That he's found someone better.

That you're nothing but a wife now -- soft, stretched, broken -- and he needs to feel like a man again.

Even if it means letting someone else make him feel it.

You'll keep pretending.

Until he stops hiding it.

And part of you already hopes he doesn't.

Because at least then... you can finally see her.

And maybe -- if you beg -- he'll let you watch.

And you do pretend.

You become good at it.

You laugh when he tells you he's working late, even though your stomach twists. You nod when he says he's going out with friends, even though your chest feels like it's caving in. You help him pick out a shirt that makes him look good. You smile while you iron it. You watch him spritz cologne onto his neck -- not the one he wears for you anymore, but the new one, the sharper, fresher scent.

He doesn't even know that you know it's not for you.

But you know.

Of course you do.

You know everything -- except the truth. Because he hasn't said it. Not out loud. Not yet.

And until he does, you can cling to the last thread of denial like it's still worth something.

He's just tired. He's just busy. You've just let yourself go too much. You just need to work harder. Cook more. Be more grateful. Maybe give him more space. Maybe pretend you don't see what's missing -- because if you acknowledge the emptiness, it becomes real.

So you play your part.

You clean the house before he gets home. You light candles. You lay out the dinner you spent hours planning. You wear the dress again -- the one that clings too tight. The one that digs into your hips now and makes your back ache when you sit too long.

You do your hair. Paint your face. Shave every inch of yourself. Moisturize your thighs, even though they jiggle no matter what you do.

You try.

You really try.

And he smiles. He says "thanks, babe" as he bites into his food and barely glances up. He talks about his day -- not asking about yours. He checks his phone every few minutes. He laughs when it buzzes. He smiles at the screen in a way he hasn't smiled at you in months.

That smile cuts deeper than any slap could.

And you wonder, quietly, if he's texting her right in front of you.

You don't ask. Of course not. You just excuse yourself to the bathroom and sit on the closed toilet lid, skirt hiked up, head between your hands, trying not to cry.

You think about your body -- your bloated belly, your purple stretch marks, the way your tits droop to the sides when you lie down. You think about your smell. Your hair. The dark line along your jaw that never used to be there. The bags under your eyes. The fact that your ankles are always swollen now. That your knees creak when you crouch. That you haven't worn matching underwear in years.

You think, How could he still want me?

And worse -- Why should he?

Maybe this is just what happens. Maybe men aren't wired to stay attracted to women like you -- women who've been torn open by childbirth, who wear old leggings and wipe spit-up off their shirt instead of perfume.

Maybe wanting him to stay faithful is selfish.

Maybe you should just be grateful he still comes home at all.

So you return to the table, cheeks flushed, lips forced into a smile. And when he says, "I might be back late tonight," you nod.

You say, "Take your time."

And he does.

You sit up alone until after midnight.

You scroll through old photos of yourself. You zoom in on the ones he used to like -- when your stomach was flat, when your thighs didn't touch, when your smile didn't look like it was hiding something.

You study them like they're crime scene photos. Trying to find the moment you stopped being enough.

The next morning, there's a long blonde hair on the passenger seat of his car.

Your hair is short. Dark.

You stare at it for a long time before brushing it away.

You don't say a word.

You just go inside and make coffee and pretend you didn't see it.

That weekend, you find a pair of lace panties in the laundry that aren't yours. Not even close to your size. Tiny. Lacy. Playful.

You freeze.

Your breath catches in your throat. The kids are in the next room. The house is filled with the smell of toast and cartoons and normalcy.

And you're holding her underwear in your hand.

You should confront him.

You should scream.

But instead, you bring them to your face.

And you sniff.

The scent is faint. Sweet. Young. Clean in a way you haven't smelled in years. There's a tang underneath it -- the unmistakable trace of pussy. And maybe, just maybe, his cum.

Your knees wobble.

Your stomach flips.

And your cunt throbs.

You don't know what's worse -- that he's cheating, or that you're wet just imagining it.

You hate yourself.

You hate your soft, stretched skin. Your broken confidence. Your hungry, desperate body. You hate that after all this, you still want him. You still dream of being touched. Still dream of being seen.

Still dream of being used.

That night, you press the panties to your face in the dark and masturbate while he sleeps beside you.

You cum fast. Hard. Pathetically quiet, biting the edge of the sheet, clenching around nothing. And you imagine him pressing her into the bed, moaning into her neck, gripping her tighter than he's held you in years.

You imagine her toes curling, her eyes rolling back, her mouth open in a moan as he fills her.

You imagine yourself in the doorway -- watching. Kneeling. Holding your breath as you press your face into the sheets they just fucked on, praying he'll let you clean them.

You imagine him pulling out and wiping himself off on your face.

And you cum again.

Alone.

In silence.

In shame.

You tell yourself it's just a fantasy.

But you know it's not.

You know, deep down, that he's already doing it.

And the only thing worse than knowing... is wondering how far he'll go before he tells you to watch.