Becoming a Cuckquean Pt. 02

You find it the following Thursday.

Folded in half and shoved deep into the pocket of his coat -- the one he only wears for work meetings -- is a receipt. A hotel. One night. Single room. A five-star name you've never stayed at together. You stare at the crumpled paper for a long time before unfolding it, your fingers trembling.

He said he was working late that night.

You remember it clearly. He kissed you on the cheek on his way out the door, told you not to wait up. You fed the kids, ran baths, folded laundry, fell asleep on the sofa watching something you can't even remember now.

While he was here.

With her.

You press the receipt to your lips like it's a photograph of a dead lover. Like it holds some sacred truth. You don't cry. You don't scream. You just stare. Burn it into your memory. Let it settle deep in your belly, thick and nauseating.

It's real now.

No more lipstick stains and perfume guesses.

This is proof.

And still, you say nothing.

You make dinner that night as if your hands aren't shaking. You smile at him as if your mind isn't full of filthy, gut-twisting visions. You let him talk about his "long day" while you nod, as if you don't know where he really was.

You eat barely anything. Your stomach is too full of acid and heat and shame. You smile when he kisses your forehead goodnight.

And then you lie in the dark with the receipt under your pillow like it's a love letter from a better woman.

You imagine her body first.

Not her face. That's not the part that matters.

You picture her lying on crisp hotel sheets, her legs parted, perfectly shaved, freshly showered. Her skin smooth and tan. Taut belly, slim waist. Not a stretch mark in sight. Maybe she wears something sexy -- red lace, black silk -- the kind of thing you haven't owned in years.

You imagine him standing at the end of the bed, slowly undoing his belt, his cock already hard because it's new. Because it's not you.

Because she's everything you're not anymore.

He's hungry for her.

Not tired.

Not distracted.

Hungry.

And she knows it. You imagine her smile -- smug, playful. That little twist of her lips before she sinks to her knees and opens her mouth for him. No hesitation. No fear of gagging. No awkward slurps or apologies.

Just hunger.

She wraps her lips around him and he groans. He grips her hair -- long, blonde maybe -- and uses her mouth like it's his right. Like she exists for this. You imagine her moaning around his cock, eyes wide and watering, and he doesn't stop.

You imagine her being better than you.

Because of course she is.

You slide your hand into your knickers in the dark and start rubbing.

Slow at first. But it doesn't stay slow. You're already soaked. Your body is disgusting for it. You feel it -- the heat, the pulse, the betrayal of your own cunt as it clenches at every filthy detail.

You imagine her gagging on him, throat bulging, spit dripping from her chin.

You imagine him telling her she's the best he's ever had.

You imagine him whispering things to her he never said to you -- even when he loved you.

And you rub harder.

Because this is the only way you get to be close to him now. Not as his wife. Not as the woman he used to love.

But as the ghost of the one watching him fuck someone else.

You imagine him flipping her onto her stomach. Spreading her. No condom. Of course not. Why would he bother?

She's clean. She's fresh. She's tight.

She's everything you're not.

You imagine his cock sliding in easily -- the slick, filthy sound of it. Her moan. His breath catching in his throat as she grips him better than you ever could, her pussy squeezing him like it was made for him.

You imagine her loving every second of it.

You imagine him grunting as he drives into her faster, harder, deeper than he's touched you in years.

And you imagine her cumming first. Loud. Shameless. Maybe she screams his name. Maybe she bites the pillow. Maybe she scratches his back and leaves marks just to prove she was there.

And he doesn't pull out.

Why would he?

You imagine him cumming inside her -- shooting deep into her perfect, pink cunt -- and staying there. Resting his face against her back while his cock softens inside her, still twitching.

You imagine the warmth.

The mess.

The stickiness.

And you imagine yourself... kneeling at the foot of the bed, begging.

Begging to be let in.

To lick the sheets. To clean her thighs. To taste the mixture of their cum sliding down her slit.

You imagine him looking at you -- not with disgust, not with pity -- but with cold amusement.

"You really want to lick her clean, huh?"

And you say yes.

You always say yes.

Because what else is left for you now?

You rub your pussy harder, furious, raw, leaking over your fingers, soaking the sheets. You bite your lip to keep from crying out.

And when you cum -- finally, violently -- it isn't even pleasure.

It's grief.

It's humiliation.

It's a release so sharp it nearly hurts.

You lie there after, your knickers soaked, your hand shaking, your face damp with sweat and tears.

And you reach under the pillow.

Pull out the receipt.

And you press it to your lips again.

---

You keep it hidden now.

In your bedside drawer, under the tampons and expired condoms. You take it out when you're alone and just... look at it. Run your thumb over the faded ink. Wonder if she was prettier in person than she is in your mind.

You imagine her fucking him again.

Again and again and again.

Each time, you get dirtier.

You add new details.

You imagine him using her mouth like a fleshlight -- fucking her face until she gags, until mascara runs down her cheeks, until she drools down her own chest.

You imagine him making her say things.

"Tell me how much tighter you are than my wife."

"Tell me how desperate she must be, letting me do this."

You imagine her laughing.

You imagine her saying your name.

Mocking you.

You imagine her sitting on his lap, riding him slow and deep, her tits bouncing, his hands squeezing her perfect ass while she says things like, "Bet she can't do this anymore, huh?"

And he agrees.

Of course he agrees.

Because you've seen yourself. You wouldn't fuck you either.

So you lie back, panties around your knees, pressing the receipt between your thighs like it's holy, and you fuck yourself with fingers that tremble from the weight of your shame.

You rub until you're sore.

Until your clit throbs.

Until your cunt feels raw and used and ruined.

Because maybe -- just maybe -- if you destroy yourself enough, he'll notice you again.

Not as his wife.

But as a hole.

As a servant.

As a pathetic little cuckquean who begs to clean his cock after he's finished with someone who matters.

And you'd thank him for the chance.

You'd thank her too.

You'd moan while licking her clean.

Because that's the closest you'll ever get to being loved again.

Not as a woman.

But as a witness.

As the one who sees it all -- and begs for more.