Princess Karìn’s Evening Lecture
Look at you, little cuckold, kneeling there in your pink steel cage like the pathetic bitch you are. Do you know why I made you wait in the corner for the last three hours while Marcus rearranged my insides? Because I can. Because you don’t deserve to watch until you’ve been reminded—slowly, cruelly, deliciously—exactly where you stand in this hierarchy.
Let’s start with the obvious, shall we? My lover’s cock (ten thick, veiny inches of perfect black steel) is still dripping inside me right now. I can feel him pulsing against my cervix every time I shift on this couch. You, on the other hand, haven’t been allowed out of that tiny cage in thirty-nine days. Thirty-nine. I counted them this morning while Marcus was still snoring beside me, his heavy arm draped possessively over the body you pay for, the body you worship, the body you will never again fuck like a real man.
You squirmed when I said that out loud, didn’t you? Good. Squirm harder.
Marcus doesn’t ask permission to spread my legs. He takes. He growls. He pins my wrists above my head and slides into me so deep I forget English exists. When he bottoms out, my eyes roll back and I speak in tongues—moans, whimpers, desperate little prayers that have nothing to do with you. You’ve seen it. You’ve heard it through the wall while you sat locked and leaking on the hardwood floor like a neglected house pet.
You tried to touch yourself last week when I left the bedroom door cracked on purpose. I heard the pathetic clink of metal against metal as your caged clit twitched. I marched in, slapped your face so hard the cage rattled, and made you thank me for the privilege of a red cheek. Do you remember what you said, bitch boy? “Thank you, Princess Karìn.” Voice cracking like the sissy you are.
Marcus laughs when I tell him these stories. He calls you “the wallet with legs.” He’s not wrong. Every designer bag on my arm, every red-bottom heel digging into your back when I use you as a footstool, every cum-filled condom you dispose of afterward—paid for by you, enjoyed by us. That’s your sex life now: cleaning up after a man who actually deserves this pussy.
Speaking of which, crawl over here. Closer. Put your face between my thighs and inhale. Smell that? That’s superiority. That’s ten inches of alpha seed mixed with my cream, still leaking out of the hole you used to think belonged to you. Open your mouth. Wider. I’m going to push Marcus’s load onto your tongue, and you’re going to hold it there while I finish this lecture.
You’re crying. Perfect. Tears make the taste more honest.
You are small. You are soft. You are locked and denied and utterly, laughably inadequate. Marcus is everything you will never be: tall, carved, commanding, and hung like a God. When he fucks me, I don’t fake a single moan. When you were allowed inside me—back when I still pitied you—I had to close my eyes and think of real men just to finish. Pathetic, isn’t it? The only orgasms I ever gave you were mercy orgasms, and even those are over now.
From this point forward, your only release comes from the ruinous little dribbles I allow when I’m feeling especially cruel. You’ll beg for them on your knees. You’ll film them for my amusement. You’ll lick them off the floor while Marcus and I watch and laugh, his arm around my waist, his hand cupping the ass you bought dinner for.
Look up at me. That’s it. Eyes on your Princess. I want you to say it out loud so the neighbors can hear through the open window:
“Princess Karìn’s pussy belongs to Marcus now. My tiny white clit will stay locked forever. I am a bitch. I am a cuckold. I am grateful.”
Say it louder.
Again.
Good boy.
Now swallow what’s in your mouth, kiss the tip of each toe that Marcus sucked earlier, and go stand in the corner facing the wall. Marcus will be back in an hour for round three, and I want you to listen to every slap of skin, every scream I’ll never give you, every grunt of a man who earns what you only pay for.
This is your life now, sweetheart. Locked, denied, humiliated, and utterly owned.
And deep down—between the sobs and the ruined orgasms—you love it more than you’ve ever loved anything.
Welcome home, cuck.
—Princess Karìn ♠️
Cuckolding Princess
Leave a Reply