7 - Cuckqueaned by Kira Cake #3
“Okay.” He shifts on the couch, a little flustered. “I was twenty-one. I liked having sex. And Kira—” He stops, starts again. “Well. You’ve seen her. It was fun, and she was a friend.”
I nod slowly. “What were the girls like?”
“Why are you asking?”
“I mean, I’m just wondering what they got out of it. Like, did she pay them? I saw the production quality in the early stuff. It’s not like she had a lot of money back then.”
“Oh.” He relaxes a little, like this is safer ground.
“Yeah. They were paid sometimes. Or Kira would help them out in their own videos—cross-promotion stuff. There was one where we did a whole revenge thing. The wife kidnapped Kira, tied her up in a basement, spanked her, made her orgasm like five times.” He says it the way someone might describe helping a friend move a couch.
“A few others just liked the game. No money involved.”
I stare at him. He’s talking about filming fetish porn in someone’s basement like it’s a normal Tuesday. Like it’s carpooling or splitting a check. This is a whole different world. A world he lived in for years before I ever met him.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just … processing.”
A moment passes.
“But some of them liked the fantasy, didn’t they?” I ask. “Like, actually liked it?”
“The whole cuckquean thing?” He nods. “Yeah. A couple of the girls really got into the roleplay. Cuckqueaning isn’t as big as cuckolding, but yeah, there’s a community.”
Silence settles over us again.
“How much of this have you watched?” Connor asks.
I look at the coffee table. The cold Thai food. The water rings on the wood. I don’t know how many seconds pass.
“A lot,” I say. “I was watching for a week before I even found your videos. Then I watched all of them I could find.”
A stray tear crawls down my face. I don’t wipe it away.
Connor reaches over and takes my hand. “Shawna, it’s okay. People get off to all sorts of things.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
Connor gets up from his side of the couch and sits down next to me.
He pulls me into his arms, and I let him.
My face presses against his chest, against the shirt covering that Celtic cross tattoo, and I cry.
Not a lot. Just enough to release something that’s been building since I sat in the dark last night counting videos.
He doesn’t say anything. Just holds me. His hand rubs slow circles on my back.
After a while, the tears stop. I stay where I am, listening to his heartbeat.
Then I pull my legs up onto the couch, turning to face him fully. “Did you like the fantasy? Like how those girls did?”
“You mean, that I was cheating on my ‘wife’ in front of them?”
I nod.
Connor picks up his water glass, takes a long sip, sets it back down. “Um … okay … sometimes things that are transgressive are fun to play with.”
“Ha. Transgressive.” I wipe the last of the dampness from my cheek. “Very psychological.”
“Yeah, well, Ashley was a psych major. I think she has a Master’s now.” He’s peeling the label off his water bottle, not looking at me. “She used to talk about why people are turned on by feeling inadequate, or breaking rules. The whole psychology of it.”
“Ashley?” I say.
Connor pauses. “Well, yeah. You didn’t think her real name was Kira Cake, did you?”
I look at the table. Of course, if I’d taken a moment to think about it, I would have known that. But it was just another thing that slid by me.
“And it turned you on? Breaking rules?” I ask.
He stops peeling. Looks at me. “Yeah. I enjoyed the game. Watching Kira humiliate those women. It’s so over the top that it’s ridiculous.
We had to cut filming sometimes because we started laughing so hard.
” He sets the bottle down. “But it was only really fun when I knew the other women were enjoying it, too.”
“Do you still talk?” I ask.
“Yeah. A text every now and again. ‘Happy birthday,’ stuff like that.”
I run my finger along the seam of the couch cushion. “She’s still making videos.”
“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs. “I look at her Instagram every now and again. It’s good for a laugh.”
The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. A car passes on the street outside.
“Would you ever want to …?” I trail off. Can’t finish the sentence.
Connor goes still beside me. “Want to what?”
I make myself look at him. “Do it again. With her. But …” My voice drops to almost nothing. “With me.
“I mean … you’ve already had a lot of sex with her.” I’m talking faster now, the words tumbling out. “If you were going to be a thing, you would be. So it’s not like you’d leave me for her. And she’s doing it for content, so it wouldn’t be …” I wave my hand, searching. “Like, I would feel safe.”
Connor shakes his head slowly. “Shawna, I wouldn’t want her to treat you badly.”
“If I wanted it, though.” I sit up straighter.
“I mean, if I wanted that experience, then it wouldn’t be her treating me badly.
It would be her giving me an experience.
” I grab his hand. “And you just said there’s psychological reasons a healthy person could want to do something transgressive, right? ”
Connor is quiet. He’s looking at our hands together.
“Okay,” he finally says. “One, I would be willing to consider this.” He holds up a finger. “Two, I don’t technically know if she would want to.”
I nod slowly, realizing she isn’t a prostitute we can just hire.
“And three”—he squeezes my hand—“let’s take forty-eight hours, okay? And you don’t watch any more of her videos. If you still want to do it after that, I’ll reach out to her and see what her deal is now.” He searches my face. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” I squeeze back. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
The release forms are on the table in front of me. Three pages, single-spaced. I read my copy three times yesterday. Clear language. Comprehensive. What will be filmed, how it can be used, what happens if I want it taken down. A section on health protocols. A section on safe words.
In the next room, a woman named Jenn adjusts a lighting rig. The set itself is a suburban bedroom—beige walls, generic art, a bed with a floral comforter that looks like it came from Target. Professional equipment pointed at something deliberately ordinary.
Connor signed his forms five minutes ago. He’s already flipped through them, knows what to expect. “More thorough than what I signed years ago,” he said. “But effectively the same.”
I sign my name and set down the pen.
It’s been two weeks since I told Connor I still wanted to do this.
Forty-eight hours and nine minutes after he’d asked me to wait—I was counting.
He called Ashley that night. Since then: scheduling, logistics, STI checks for both of us.
They came back the way you’d expect for a boring monogamous couple who’d been married for years: negative on everything.
Now, we’re here.
Ashley sits across from us, her own copy of the release forms in front of her. She’s wearing glasses, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Minimal makeup. A gray sweater and jeans.
If I passed her on the street, I wouldn’t look twice.
She looks like someone who might work at a nonprofit, or teach middle school English.
Somewhat above average, sure—good bone structure, nice skin—but nothing like the woman in the videos.
That woman was a weapon. This woman looks like she might ask me about a book club.
When we arrived, she and Connor hugged. Easy, familiar. The kind of hug you’d give a college friend you hadn’t seen in a while. I watched for anything more than that. A hand that lingered. A look that said something. There was nothing. Just two people who used to work together.
Ashley sets down her coffee. “We’ve covered logistics, but Jenn won’t be ready for another hour. Before I go become ‘Kira Cake’”—she makes air quotes—“I’d like to understand more about your pathway into this. Walk me through how you first became interested.”
I tell her the story. The algorithm. The confession videos that led to Instagram that led to OnlyFans. Watching ironically, then not ironically. The week of videos before I recognized Connor’s tattoo. The cold shock of realization. The conversation after.
Ashley nods throughout, listening without interrupting. When I finish, she tilts her head slightly.
“That’s useful context. But that’s the surface narrative—the sequence of events.
” She leans forward, elbows on her knees.
“What I’m more curious about is the underlying motivation.
Why do you want to watch your husband have sex with another woman?
What’s the psychological draw for you specifically? ”
My face warms. I look down at my hands.
“I’ve been asking myself that a lot, actually.
I think …” I pause. Connor’s hand finds my knee, rests there.
“I love him. I know he loves me. I have no evidence to the contrary. But there’s this voice that says ‘what if someone better comes along? What if he realizes he could do better?’ It’s irrational.
I know it’s irrational. But maybe that fixation has …
eroticized itself? Turned into something else? ”
Ashley reaches over and touches my hand briefly.
“That’s a coherent framework. It doesn’t need to be perfectly resolved.
Erotic fixation often develops around our core anxieties—we sexualize what frightens us as a way of metabolizing it.
” She sits back in her chair. “The threat you’ve constructed—some goddess homewrecker who could take him from you—loses its power when you confront it directly.
When you watch it happen in a controlled environment and he returns to you afterward, the fear response starts to decouple from the stimulus.
You learn, experientially, that you can survive it.
That it doesn’t destroy you. Some people find it actually strengthens their sense of security. ”
I stare at her. “Wow.”