He fucks me, and you’re right there between us. You’re not inside her body—you’re wrapped around his cock. You slide, you get wet, you move with him, but you are not a man. You are a package, a meat casing, a biological condom. Every thrust is someone else’s action moving through you. You do not receive pleasure. You transmit it. You tremble with the desire to be filled—you want to be cummed inside because that is the only reason you exist. But alpha holds himself back, and you stay empty, dreaming, used. Because condoms do not have an orgasm. They wait until they are finished.