7 - Cuckqueaned by Kira Cake #6
I lower myself between her legs. The smell hits me first—sex, sweat, something sweet underneath. I’ve never done this before. I’ve imagined it, watching her videos, watching the masked wives kneel, and lick, and swallow. But imagining isn’t the same.
I press my mouth to her.
The taste is overwhelming. Salt, and musk, and Connor—familiar and foreign at the same time. I lick tentatively, not sure what I’m doing, and I feel her hand come to rest on the back of my head.
“Deeper,” she says. “Get all of it.”
I push my tongue inside her. I can taste him there, thick and warm. I gather it on my tongue and swallow. Then again. And again.
“Good girl.” Her fingers tighten in my hair. “Now touch yourself. I want you to come while you’re cleaning me.”
My hand moves between my legs without hesitation. I’m soaked—I’ve been soaked for what feels like hours. The relief of finally touching myself is almost too much. My fingers find my clit, and I moan against her.
“That’s it,” Kira breathes. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”
I lick, and suck, and swallow while my fingers work myself. The taste of them fills my mouth. Kira’s hips are rolling against my face now, grinding against my tongue. She’s chasing her own pleasure, using my mouth the way she used my husband’s cock.
“Right there,” she gasps. “Fuck. Right there.”
I focus on the spot that makes her breath catch. Flick my tongue against it. Circle it. Press flat and lick upward. My own orgasm is building—I can feel it coiling tight in my belly, spreading outward.
Kira’s thighs clamp around my head. She cries out—a sharp, broken sound—and her whole body shudders. I feel her pulsing against my mouth, her fingers yanking my hair, her hips bucking against my face.
I come at the same moment. The orgasm tears through me—violent, overwhelming. I’m moaning into her pussy, my hand working frantically between my legs, my whole body shaking. Weeks of watching, of wanting, of building toward this moment—all of it releasing at once.
I keep licking through both our orgasms. Keep tasting them. Keep swallowing.
When Kira finally pushes my head away, I collapse onto the bed between her and Connor, gasping for air.
We lie there for a while. Catching our breath. The room is quiet except for our breathing and the hum of the equipment.
Then Kira props herself up on one elbow and looks at me. The smirk is back.
“Now go start cooking,” she says. “I’m going to fuck your husband again, and you don’t get to watch.”
Jenn moves closer, zooming in on my face. I touch the collar. Feel the leather against my throat.
I stand up on shaky legs. My thighs are slick. My knees ache from the floor. I walk slowly toward the door, aware of the camera following me, aware of my naked body on display.
“Close the door!” Kira yells after me.
I turn around. Whoever watches this video will see my naked self—flushed, used, apologetic—closing the bedroom door behind me. Shutting myself out.
The door clicks shut.
I stand in the hallway of the fake house, naked, alone. I can hear them shuffling around on the other side. The bed creaking as they reposition.
Then Jenn’s voice. “Let’s close on kissing.”
Five seconds. Maybe ten.
“Cut.”
I’m still standing there when Connor opens the door. He’s naked. He’s taken off his mask. He steps toward me but stops before embracing me, looking me up and down. His hand touches my shoulder.
“Shawna.” His voice is soft. “Are you okay?”
I look up at him and nod. “Yeah, I am.”
I fold into his arms and start crying.
I feel Ashley hover nearby. She says something to Connor—I can’t make out the words.
“We’ll check in with her in a minute,” he says.
He guides me back to the bedroom, to the bed where everything just happened. He sits me down and takes my mask off, gently, carefully, like he’s unwrapping something fragile.
I’m crying. I feel amazing, but I am crying.
Jenn hands me a box of tissues.
A bottle of water appears. I drink from it, long gulps, not caring that some of it runs down my chin.
I start laughing while I’m crying. The two sounds mixing together, coming out of me at the same time. It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.
It was incredible.
Connor touches my face, wipes a tear away with his thumb. “That was incredible,” he says. “You’re really amazing.”
I feel amazing. I don’t know why, but I do.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve recovered some semblance of myself. I’m wrapped in a robe someone handed me. The tears have stopped. The shaking has mostly stopped.
Ashley comes back. The aggressive parts of her makeup are gone—the sharp contour, the dramatic eyes. She’s in a robe now, too. She kneels down in front of me, tentatively touches my knee, and looks up at my face.
“Tell me how you’re feeling,” she says.
I smile. It surprises me that I can. “I feel great. Exhausted. Turned on. Useless.” I shake my head. “I don’t know. But that was amazing.”
“Good.” She squeezes my knee. “That was one of the best things I’ve ever filmed. You were incredible.”
I smile again. How can I be feeling good right now? I just watched my husband fuck another woman. I licked his cum out of her. I was humiliated, and dismissed, and shut out of a room in my own fantasy.
None of this makes sense.
But I feel amazing, anyway.