7 - Cuckqueaned by Kira Cake #4
“Women are socialized into relational anxiety,” Ashley continues, her tone matter-of-fact.
“We’re taught to compete with each other for male attention.
We internalize narratives about fragility—is this relationship secure?
Am I enough? Am I doing enough? These thought patterns become intrusive, even when there’s no evidence to support them.
” She picks up her coffee again, takes a sip.
“So, today, in a safe container, I’m going to help you survive—and hopefully enjoy—the experience of your husband being ‘taken’ from you.
And when we’re done, he goes right back to you.
Because you’re the one he chose. You’re the one he keeps choosing. ”
“That’s … that sounds amazing,” I say.
I’m realizing that Ashley is intimidating in a way that Kira Cake is not. It should have occurred to me that a performer who had figured out how to press so many buttons through Instagram videos had to also be a genius behind the mask.
Even the word mask takes on a new meaning. Connor and I, and all the co-performers, wear masks in her videos. But Ashley is wearing one, too.
“So … you do this with real couples?” I ask.
Ashley chuckles. “I’ve tried, but about half the time the footage isn’t usable.
The wives are usually fine, but more often than you’d think, it’s the husbands who can’t do it, or who can’t stay hard.
” She shrugs. “I mostly work with other content creators. Sometimes, they’re couples in real life, too. That’s fun.”
She sets down her coffee. “About a year ago, a multi-millionaire tech founder and his wife cut me a check to do a shoot and be featured. I was going to say no, but it was a lot of money, and they came prepared with three recent STI screenings, each four weeks apart. They came to play.”
Connor grins. “You’ve come a long way from iPhones in our living room.”
“Yeah.” Ashley laughs. “Frankly, that guy was fifty-five and—pardon the vernacular—’fucked my brains out.’ They were fun.”
I look at Connor. He chuckles, not even slightly threatened by the possibility of comparison with a fifty-five-year-old tech guy who probably bio-hacked his way into quasi-immortality.
Everything here should feel wrong, but it doesn’t.
Ashley refocuses and looks at me. Her expression shifts—still warm, but more direct now.
“So, Shawna, you know your safe words. Use them if you need to. But remember—you are safe here.” A small curve appears at the corner of her mouth.
“But the next time you see me, I’ll be Kira Cake.
And she will be very mean to you. She will steal your husband.
And there’s nothing you can do to stop her. ”
Heat floods through me, collecting itself low around my waist. I can’t speak.
Ashley holds my gaze. “That’s what you want, right?”
I’m lost in her eyes, and then I realize what she’s doing. Ashley is asking me one final time for permission. For consent to take my husband away. I can still say no.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s what I want.”
She smiles. Stands up. Looks at Connor. “This’ll be fun. Jenn will tell you both what to do next.”
And with that, Ashley is gone.
The feather duster is ridiculous. I’m dusting a fake bookshelf in a fake bedroom, wearing a silk slip and nothing else. The collar around my throat is snug but not tight. Jenn fastened it herself, checked it twice.
“If you start to drift or spiral,” she’d said, “focus on the collar. Let it center you. Remind yourself this is a role.”
I dust the same three books over and over. The mask covers half my face. I can feel my pulse in my neck, pressing against the leather.
The door opens.
Kira walks in first. Connor is behind her.
She’s in a short black dress, her cleavage almost spilling out. Her makeup transforms her—perfect in an almost grotesque way, like a magazine cover come to life. This isn’t Ashley. This is the woman from the videos. The one who looked into the camera and winked.
Connor is wearing the same pants and button-down he arrived in. Men always have less work to do.
They don’t look at me. Kira turns to him immediately, pulls him toward her, and kisses him. First lightly. Then deeper. My husband’s hands go to her waist, and he kisses her back, ignoring me completely, like I’m furniture.
I stand there with the feather duster, stupefied.
Kira breaks the kiss and looks at me. “Kneel down, pet.” She points at the floor near her feet. “Your husband spent so much money on me tonight.”
I kneel. The floor is harder than I expected.
She kisses Connor again. He kisses back, his hands sliding to her hips, and nods. “I did. I shouldn’t have, but look at her.”
The dialogue is cartoonish. I’m looking up at them. Connor’s hands on her waist. Her looking down at me with that smirk I’ve seen in a hundred thumbnails. It’s ridiculous.
I’m wet through my slip. I hope nobody notices. Then I hope everyone does. Then I can’t think straight at all.
Kira walks toward the bed, her heels clicking on the floor. She gestures for Connor to follow. Then she curls one finger at me.
I crawl to her. The carpet burns my knees slightly. I kneel in front of her at the foot of the bed.
“Your husband took me to your favorite restaurant tonight.” Her hand moves to Connor’s crotch. He’s hard. I can see the outline of it through his pants. “They recognized him. They know he’s with a better woman now.”
The bastard. I almost laugh. Of course he’s hard—this only works if he is. I still resent him for it.
Kira catches my expression. “Something funny, pet?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, Ma’am.”
“Good.” She turns back to Connor, runs her palm along the length of him through the fabric. “Your wife doesn’t seem to appreciate what she’s losing. Let’s make it clear.”
She lowers Connor’s pants. His cock springs out, hard and ready. She grasps it at the base, looks at me, and licks her lips slowly. Then she takes him in her mouth.
Connor moans. It isn’t fake, but he’s hyping it up a bit—playing to the camera, playing to me. Kira works him with practiced ease, her head bobbing, her hand twisting at the base.
She stops after a minute and laughs. Stands up, still holding him.
“Here,” she says, leading him by the cock until he’s pointed at my face. “You have one chance. See if you can suck his cock better than I can.”
I open my mouth. Kira walks behind me, and I feel her hands on the back of my head. Connor pushes forward, and his dick slides into my mouth.
Kira’s hands control the pace. She bounces my head on him, pushing me forward, pulling me back. I think I’m good at sucking dick, but there’s no chance for me to even try. She’s not letting me show anything—just using my mouth like a sleeve.
This lasts maybe ten seconds before she pulls my head back. A string of saliva connects my lips to his cock.
She looks at Connor. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“She’s never given good head,” Connor says.
I’m stung. I actually feel it. What a ridiculous thing to feel right now. I want to protest, want to say I could do better if she’d just let me try. But that’s the game we’re playing. It isn’t fair. I’m meant to lose, and Kira is meant to win.
While I’m still processing the sting, Kira kneels beside me. She wraps her lips around his cock and her hand around the base. She takes him in and out with precision—no hesitation, no gagging, just smooth, controlled movements.
She is good at this. Of course she is. She has practice. Hundreds of videos worth of practice.
She is objectively better at sucking cock than I am.
Kira pulls back and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She stands, reaches behind herself, and unzips the black dress. It falls to the floor. She’s wearing nothing underneath except a thin black thong and her heels.
She peels off the thong and drops it on top of the dress. Now she’s naked except for those heels—perfect and unashamed.
She looks at me. “Stand up.”
I stand. My legs are shaky.
She reaches for the straps of my slip, slides them off my shoulders and down my arms. The silk pools at my feet. I’m naked now, standing next to her.
I look at her body. She’s still in heels—I’m barefoot. She has makeup on—I have a mask. Her hair is perfect, styled and voluminous. I was told not to even think about mine. It’s in the same simple ponytail it was when I got in the car this morning.
I look at Connor as he looks between the two of us. The contest is rigged.
“What do you think, baby?” Kira runs her hand down my arm, casual, proprietary. “Your wife or me?”
She turns around. Her ass is perfect—high, round, sculpted. She lives in the gym. She doesn’t sit on it for eight hours a day on Zoom calls.
She turns back around. Her breasts are perfect, too. She’s had them done, and they’re done very well—full and lifted, defying gravity. I have the same tits I’ve had for years. Just lower.
I could never win against her. Connor would be insane to choose me.
“Well?” Kira prompts.
Connor looks at me. For just a second, something real flickers in his eyes—something like apology, or reassurance, or maybe pity. Then he’s back in character.
“There’s no contest,” he says. “Look at you.”
He’s talking to Kira. Of course he is.
Kira smiles and turns to me.
“You love your husband, right?”
I nod.
“You want him to be happy?”
“Yes.” I nod again.
“So he should fuck me now, right?”
Her logic is pristine. Airtight. I swallow. “Yes. Yes, Kira, please fuck my husband. He deserves better than me.”
“I agree!” She leans in and kisses my masked cheek. Her lips are soft, her perfume expensive. Then she turns away from me like I’ve ceased to exist.
She guides Connor toward the bed. Pushes him down onto his back. Climbs on top of him, straddling his hips.
I’m still standing where she left me. Naked. No one has told me to move. No one is looking at me.
She sinks down onto him slowly. I watch my husband’s cock disappear inside another woman. Her head falls back. Connor’s hands go to her hips.
“God,” she breathes. “I forgot how good you feel.”
“You, too,” Connor says. His voice is strained. “Fuck, you, too.”