7 - Cuckqueaned by Kira Cake
FMF / Cuckquean / Humiliation / Cuckquean Cleanup / Femdom
Connor is in Minneapolis for some client thing. I can’t sleep. His pillow smells like him, but he isn’t here, and my phone is right there, glowing.
I scroll past a confession video. One of those relationship ones where someone admits something terrible to the camera.
A woman who slept with her best friend’s husband—twice.
I watch the whole thing. Then another one.
A man confessing he’d been paying for a woman’s apartment while married.
Then a compilation of “the other woman” stories, all of them speaking directly to the camera with varying degrees of remorse.
I don’t skip any of them.
By midnight, I’m deep in a corner of Instagram I’ve never seen before. Women who aren’t apologizing. Women who are proud. “The other woman” as a brand, a persona, a business model.
That’s where I find Kira Cake.
Her bio reads, “No husband is safe. See how I made this one cheat right in front of his wife.” Followed by a link.
I scroll through her grid. She’s stunning.
Dark hair, sharp features, the kind of body that looks expensive to maintain.
But it’s the confidence that gets me. The way she looks at the camera like she’s letting you in on a joke.
Every caption is a challenge, a taunt, an invitation.
She has half a million followers and comments full of women calling her a homewrecker and men asking to be next.
I follow her. Just to see. Just because it’s one a.m., and Connor is in Minneapolis, and I can’t sleep.
Then I click the link.
The OnlyFans subscription is twelve dollars a month. I hesitate for maybe three seconds before typing in my card number.
I watch one video. A masked woman hands over her wedding ring so Kira can wear it while fucking her husband. The wife sobs theatrically. Kira makes her kiss her feet. At one point, the wife holds Kira’s legs back while her husband thrusts.
I snort out loud in my empty bedroom. This is ridiculous.
I watch one more. Then I put my phone down and stare at the ceiling. Connor’s flight lands at eleven tomorrow. I have a nine a.m. meeting I should be rested for.
I fall asleep with the phone on his pillow.
Connor comes home the next afternoon with a bag of those butter cookies I like from the airport shop. We make dinner together. He tells me about the client, about the hotel gym being closed for renovation, about some guy on his flight who clapped when they landed.
Normal. Everything is normal.
We watch two episodes of something then go to bed. He falls asleep in minutes, the way he always does. I lie there in the dark, listening to him breathe.
I’m not thinking about the videos. Not exactly. But they’re there, somewhere in the back of my head, like a song I heard at the grocery store.
Wednesday. Connor leaves for work at seven thirty. I have a nine a.m. call, then nothing until two.
At ten fifteen, between emails, I open Instagram. Just scrolling. Kira’s posted a new reel. A teaser for upcoming content. She’s wearing someone’s wedding ring on a chain around her neck, dangling between her breasts. The caption: “Guess whose husband bought me this necklace?”
The comments are vicious and adoring in equal measure. Women calling her disgusting. Men in her DMs. Other women, a surprising number, saying things like queen and teach me your ways.
I watch the reel three times. Then I close the app and answer emails until my two o’clock.
That night, Connor and I order Thai. He talks about a project that’s going sideways. I nod in the right places. I’m present. I’m here.
But part of me is still thinking about the wedding ring on the chain.
Thursday, I have back-to-back meetings until noon. In the eleven minutes between the ten a.m. and the ten thirty, I watch another video.
This one has a different masked wife. Same husband, though. I recognize his build now, the way he moves.
In this video, the wife is made to kneel beside the bed and narrate what she sees. “He’s inside her. He’s … he’s going deeper than he ever goes with me.” The dialogue is wooden. The wife sounds like she’s reading from a script she was handed five minutes before filming.
I close the tab when my next meeting starts. Take notes on Q3 projections. Respond to a Slack message about the Henderson account.
At lunch, I watch the video again. Just the middle part. The part where Kira looks directly at the camera while the wife narrates, a small smile on her face. Like she knows I’m watching. Like she’s won something.
Connor falls asleep by ten, his hand on my hip, his breathing slow and steady. I wait until I’m sure he’s out then slip out of bed and take my phone to the living room.
I settle into the corner of the couch, pull a blanket over my lap. The volume is low.
Just one more. I want to see how ridiculous the next one is.
This video opens with a masked wife standing in the center of the frame, naked. Kira enters from the side, wearing a silk robe that’s barely closed. The masked husband sits on the edge of the bed, watching.
Kira unties her robe and lets it fall. She stands next to the wife, both of them facing the husband. Then she cups her own breasts, lifts them slightly.
“Choose,” she says.
The husband looks between them. Pauses a beat too long, like he’s waiting for a cue. “I’m sorry, honey.” His voice is flat, rehearsed. “I just … I want Kira.”
The wife puts her head down. Her shoulders shake with what I assume are meant to be sobs.
“On your knees,” Kira says. “Watch while I take care of your husband.”
The wife kneels.
Kira crosses to the bed, pushes the husband back, takes him in her mouth until he’s hard. Then she climbs on top, sinking down slowly, theatrically. She keeps turning toward the kneeling wife.
“God, he feels so good,” she says. “You have no idea what you’ve been missing.”
The husband turns his head toward his wife. “She’s so much better.” He sounds like he’s reading off a cue card just out of frame. “Tighter than you, honey.”
The wife sobs louder.
A few minutes later, Kira finishes. She climbs off, crawls toward the camera on her hands and knees, and looks directly into the lens. “Whose husband is next?” She laughs. The video ends.
I lock my phone. Stare at the dark window.
That breast comparison was purely for men. What woman would ever agree to that? The whole thing is theater. Absurd theater.
That’s when I notice how tightly my thighs are pressed together.
I’m wet.
I tell myself it’s normal. It’s silly. I’m ovulating. It’s nothing.
“Okay,” I say out loud to my empty living room. “That’s enough internet for today.”
I put my phone on the coffee table, go back to the bedroom, and slide under the covers next to Connor. He doesn’t stir. I close my eyes and don’t think about Kira Cake, or masked husbands, or kneeling wives.
I fall asleep eventually.
Friday, I have a nine a.m., an eleven, and a two thirty. The gaps between them used to be for lunch, for laundry, for staring out the window and pretending to think about work.
Now I know what the gaps are for.
At ten fifteen, I’m on the couch with my laptop open to a spreadsheet I’m not looking at. My phone is propped against a pillow. The video is already playing.
This one has the wife in a French maid costume. The little black dress, the white apron, the headband. She’s holding a silver serving tray with two glasses of champagne and a bottle of lube, standing at attention while Kira and her husband fuck on the bed behind her.
The maid’s hands are shaking. The glasses clink against each other.
The husband groans, thrusts harder. “God, Kira, my wife can’t even get me hard anymore.”
The maid flinches but keeps holding the tray.
“This is what I’ve been missing.”
Then Kira snaps her fingers. “Maid.”
The wife turns, still holding the tray.
The husband speeds up, grunts, finishes inside Kira with a groan. He pulls out and collapses beside her on the bed.
Kira spreads her legs wider, looks at the maid still holding the tray. “You’re dressed to clean,” she says. “So get on your knees and clean.”
The wife sets the tray down. Kneels at the edge of the bed. She hesitates for just a moment, looking at what’s leaking out of Kira, white against pink. Then she lowers her mouth.
She licks slowly at first. Tentative. Kira reaches down and grabs a fistful of the maid’s hair, pulls her in closer. “All of it,” she says. “Don’t waste a drop.”
The wife’s tongue works deeper. I can see her swallowing. Kira’s hips roll against her face, grinding, using her mouth. The husband watches from the bed, stroking himself lazily, already getting hard again.
Kira’s head falls back. She moans, long and loud, her thighs clamping around the wife’s head. Then she looks directly at the camera and winks.
My hand is already inside my underwear. I don’t remember putting it there.
Kira’s eyes stay on the camera. On me. Like she knows I’m watching. Like she knows exactly what I’m doing right now.
I come so hard my vision whites out. My hips buck against my hand. I bite down on the blanket to keep from making a noise, even though Connor is at work, even though I’m alone, even though there’s no one to hear me come to a video of a stranger eating another stranger’s husband out of her pussy.
My eleven a.m. starts in six minutes. I close the video, wash my hands, and log into Zoom with my camera off.
“Sorry,” I type in the chat. “Having some internet issues today.”
The weekend is normal. Grocery shopping. Connor’s friend comes over to watch a game. I make guacamole and pretend to care about football.
I don’t watch any videos. I’m proving something to myself. I can stop whenever I want.
Monday, I’m back on the couch by nine thirty.
I don’t know how many times I’ve come watching that bitch pretend to be a homewrecker.