if you were a real man, you wouldn’t be here. you wouldn’t be locked in chastity, leaking through a cage, desperate for attention while i talk about someone else. you wouldn’t be begging for the scraps of a woman who’s already been thoroughly satisfied by someone better. you wouldn’t be edging in humiliation while i describe what it feels like to be actually wanted. because if you were a real man, you wouldn’t need this. but you’re not. you’re the opposite of everything i crave, everything i reward, everything i respect. and deep down, you know it. you see the way i talk about him - what he does to me, how easy it is for him to claim what you can only dream about - and it hurts. of course it does. you’re nothing like him. he takes. he owns. he fucks. and you? you stare. you ache. you’re a background character in a life that doesn’t include you. you don’t get love, or sex, or power. you get rules. ritual. restraint. denial. and if that stings? good. i want you to feel it. because this is exactly where you belong - watching, waiting, jealous, broken. a useless little cuck obsessed with what he’ll never be.