7 - Cuckqueaned by Kira Cake #2
By Wednesday, I’ve seen most of her recent content. The same masked husband appears in at least a dozen videos. Different wives, different scenarios, same man. I’ve started to recognize his tells. The way he grips the headboard. The sound he makes right before he finishes.
Sometimes, the wives repeat, too, but Kira calls them different names. “Jane” in one video. “Meredith” in another. “Karen” in one where she makes the wife iron her lingerie while watching. But, usually, it’s just “honey.” Generic. Interchangeable.
Sometimes, the husband changes. Once, there was an Asian couple—both masked, both stiff, clearly reading their lines. I laughed out loud, wondering if they even knew each other beforehand or if Kira just puts out random ads on Craigslist.
I’m not even pretending this is anthropological anymore.
Thursday, Kira posts a “Throwback Thursday” reel on Instagram. A clip from her early days, she says. Before she figured out lighting. A laughing emoji. A link to the full video in her archive.
I click through.
The production quality is rough. Worse camera, bad angles, a bed that looks like it’s in someone’s actual apartment rather than a rented studio. Kira is younger. Still gorgeous, still confident, but less polished. More real, somehow.
The dynamic is the same. Masked wife. Masked husband. Kira in control.
The wife in this one is curvier than most of the others. She’s wearing a cheap masquerade mask, the kind you’d buy at a party store. Kira makes her strip, fold her clothes neatly, and kneel by the closet while she takes the husband to bed.
The husband’s mask is plain black. He takes off his shirt, and I see a tattoo on his chest.
Celtic cross.
I pause the video. Zoom in.
Connor has a Celtic cross tattoo on his chest. He got it in college, he told me. Before we met. A dumb decision he doesn’t regret.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
I hit play.
The husband moves toward Kira. She stops him, turns him to face his wife.
“Tell her,” Kira says.
“Sorry, honey.” His voice is flat, reading the script. “Kira deserves my cock, and you don’t.”
The wife’s head drops. “I know,” she says despondently. “She’s so much hotter. Thank you for letting me watch, Ma’am.”
Kira smiles and pushes the husband onto the bed. Climbs on top. Starts to ride him. He groans, and I know that sound. I know exactly what that sound means.
I’ve heard it in my bedroom. In our shower. In the back seat of his car that one time we drove up to the lake.
The tattoo. The voice. The sound.
I rewind. Watch again.
My whole body goes cold. How did it take me this long to notice. Um … maybe because how is this possible?
I keep scrolling. Looking for him. The Celtic cross. The build. The way he moves.
In one, a wife lies on her back between Kira’s spread knees, staring up. My husband is behind Kira, taking her from behind, and the wife has a front-row view of everything. His cock sliding in and out. The wet sounds. The way Kira’s body rocks with each thrust.
In another, Connor finishes on Kira’s feet.
She wiggles her toes, looks at the wife. “Well?”
The wife crawls across the floor and licks them clean, one toe at a time, while Kira laughs.
In another, he finishes inside her. But before the wife can clean her up, Kira scoots toward the camera.
The lens is inches from her crotch. My husband leaking out of her, white against pink.
She looks directly into the camera. “Clean it up, bitch.” Then she pulls back, and the wife’s masked face appears, lowering her mouth to do exactly that.
I’m wet. I don’t touch myself.
I stop watching.
Twenty-three videos. At least. Maybe more where I can’t be sure, where the angle is wrong or his shirt stays on.
I sit on the couch in the dark for a long time.
I don’t sleep much. Every time I close my eyes, I see the Celtic cross, hear that sound, watch Kira crawl toward the camera and wink.
Connor sleeps fine. Of course he does. He doesn’t know anything is wrong.
In the morning, he makes coffee the way he always does. Measures the beans. Grinds them. Pours the water. He’s humming something, some song from the radio, and I’m watching him like I’ve never seen him before.
This man. My husband. Who empties the dishwasher without being asked, falls asleep during movies, and once drove forty minutes to bring me soup when I was sick at my mother’s house.
This man was Kira Cake’s co-star. Her regular.
Her masked husband, saying lines like “my wife can’t even get me hard anymore” while women in cheap masquerade masks kneel and watch.
He hands me a cup of coffee. “You okay? You look tired.”
“Didn’t sleep great,” I say. Which is true.
“Want me to pick up dinner on the way home? Give you a break?”
“Sure,” I say. “That sounds good.”
He kisses my forehead and leaves for work. I sit at the kitchen table with my coffee going cold, trying to figure out what to do.
By the time he gets home with food, I have a plan.
I’m not going to confront him. Not yet. I’m going to give him a chance to tell me himself. An opening. If he takes it, we can talk. If he doesn’t …
I don’t know what happens if he doesn’t.
We eat on the couch, containers spread across the coffee table. He tells me about his day. A client who keeps changing her mind about coverage. A new guy in the office who microwaves fish. Normal stuff. I nod in the right places.
When we’re done eating, I set down my container and turn to face him.
“Let’s play a game,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “What kind of game?”
“Tell me something I don’t know about you.” I keep my voice light. Playful. “Something from before we met. Something you’ve never told me.”
Connor leans back into the couch, thinking. “Okay. Um.” He scratches his jaw. “I got arrested once. Senior year of college.”
“What?” This is genuinely new. “For what?”
“Public urination.” He grins, a little embarrassed. “Spring break. Myrtle Beach. I was drunk and couldn’t find a bathroom. Cop let me off with a warning after I cried.”
I laugh. It’s a real laugh, despite everything. “You cried?”
“I was twenty-one and terrified. My dad would have killed me. Of course I cried.” He takes a bite of pad Thai. “Plus, it worked.” He shrugs. “Your turn. Tell me something I don’t know.”
I pick at my green curry. This is the moment. Model vulnerability. Give him permission to go deeper.
“Okay,” I say. “Here’s something I’ve never told you.”
He sets down his container, giving me his full attention.
“When I was twenty-six, I went to the Dominican Republic with a friend. Her cousin had a timeshare. We were supposed to stay a week, but my friend got food poisoning on day two and flew home early.” I push a piece of chicken around the container. “I stayed.”
“By yourself?”
“I met someone. An older guy. Brazilian, I think. Maybe Portuguese. He had a boat.” I’m not looking at Connor. I’m looking at the curry. “We spent four days together. Drinking. Some drugs. There was a night with him and another woman. A friend of his.”
The room is very quiet.
“I got tested when I came home,” I say. “Everything was fine. I never saw him again. Never even knew his last name.”
I finally look up. Connor’s face is hard to read.
“That’s … that’s something, Shawna.”
“Are you mad?”
He laughs. Not meanly. Just surprised. “No. I’m glad you’re all right. That could have gone badly.” He shakes his head slowly. “Honestly? I’m kind of impressed. I didn’t know you had that in you.”
I wait. The opening is right there. Your turn. Tell me something wild. Something you’ve never told anyone.
He picks up his container and takes another bite.
He doesn’t say anything.
The silence stretches. I watch him chew. Swallow. Reach for his water glass.
“What about you?” I try to keep my voice casual. “What’s the wildest thing you did in your twenties?”
He thinks for a second. “Probably the arrest. Or maybe the time I hitchhiked from Austin to—” He stops. Sets down his water.
He’s looking at me now. Really looking.
“Shawna?”
“Yes?”
“What the hell is going on?”
I don’t say anything. My face must be doing something, though, because he turns his whole body toward me on the couch.
“This isn’t a random game,” he says. “You’ve been weird all day. You barely touched your food. And now you’re telling me about a threesome in the Dominican Republic?” He searches my face. “What’s happening?”
I put my container on the coffee table. My hands need something to do, so I fold them in my lap.
“I found something,” I say. “Online.”
He waits.
“Videos.”
The word hangs there. I watch his face change. The confusion giving way to something else. Something that looks like the beginning of understanding.
“What kind of videos?” His voice is careful now.
“Kira Cake,” I say.
He closes his eyes.
“That was years ago,” he says, eyes still closed. “Before I met you.”
“I know.”
He opens his eyes. “How much did you watch?”
“A lot.”
He rubs his face with both hands. “Jesus, Shawna. How did you even—” He stops. Starts again. “She was my roommate. Junior and senior year. She was starting this whole thing, needed someone she could trust. I wore a mask. It was supposed to be anonymous.”
“The tattoo,” I say.
“Fuck.” He looks down at his own chest like he forgot it was there. “I didn’t think … It was so long ago. The videos were supposed to be buried in the archive by now.”
“Throwback Thursday,” I say.
He groans.
We sit there on the couch, the Thai food getting cold between us. The TV is off. The apartment is quiet except for the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
“The wives weren’t real,” he finally says. “The main one was her friend from college. They’d recruit others sometimes—friends, people who answered ads. Everyone was in on it. It was just content.”
“I know,” I say. “I could tell it was staged.”
It gets quiet. I pick at a thread on the couch cushion.
“Why did you do it?” I ask.
“I just told you.”
“No. That’s not a good enough reason. You don’t record yourself having sex just because someone needed help.”