Listen to me, little cuck.
Right now. Drop whatever you’re doing, put the phone on speaker, and get on your knees where you belong. That’s it. I can hear the carpet under your knees from here. Good.
Tonight is the night everything you’ve been whimpering and begging for finally happens, and I’m only going to explain it once, so you’d better burn every single word into that useless brain.
In exactly four hours I’m walking through our front door on the arm of Darius (six-foot-six, shoulders like a linebacker, and a thick, cruel, nine-and-a-half-inch cock that already owns every thought in my head today). You’ve seen the pictures I sent you at work: him pressing me against his car, my skirt hiked up, his hand so big it completely covers my ass. You zoomed in on the bulge in his jeans and cried in the bathroom stall, didn’t you? Don’t lie. Your location history showed you sat in there for twenty-three minutes.
Here’s what’s going to happen between now and the moment my key turns in the lock.
First, you are going to strip completely naked. Everything off. Socks too; I want you barefoot and shivering. Then you’re marching your pale, flabby little body to the nightstand where your new cage is waiting. Not the pink one you’ve been wearing like a security blanket for the last six months. No. Tonight you graduate to the steel micro cage (the one I made you order last week). The one that’s barely an inch long. The one that will turn whatever laughable excuse for a dick you have into a pathetic little metal button.
Open the package. I hear the tape ripping. Good boy. Now lube up that tiny nub (yes, cold lube, I want you squirming) and start working it into the cage. Push your worthless balls through the ring first. That’s it. I can hear you whimpering already. Shove that baby carrot all the way in until the only thing sticking out is the little pee slit. Click the lock. Snap it shut. Now hold the key up to the camera so I can see the number engraved on it: 2281. Perfect.
That key is going on the thin gold chain around my ankle (the one that will be draped over Darius’s shoulder later while he rails me on the bed you made this morning). You will never touch that key again. Ever. The only way you get out from now on is if I decide your suffering is funny enough to reward with five minutes of freedom and a ruined orgasm into the toilet. And honestly? I wouldn’t bet on that happening before 2027.
Now that your microdick is officially retired, it’s time to turn our house into the perfect stage for my date.
Start in the bedroom. Change the sheets to the new black satin set (the ones that show wet spots so beautifully). Put the old white ones in the wash immediately; I want zero trace of your scent anywhere near where Darius is going to mark his territory tonight. While the washer runs, light every candle I bought (the expensive Diptyque ones you complained were “too much”). I want the room glowing and smelling like money.
Next, the playroom. Drag the padded bench to the center of the floor and lay out every toy I might want: the thick black dildo that’s bigger than your forearm, the leather cuffs, the riding crop, the lube warmer already set to 102 degrees. Arrange them on the silver tray like a five-star hotel turn-down service. Put the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket (the good stuff, not the $12 grocery-store garbage you like). Two glasses. Only two. You don’t drink when real men are present.
Living room: vacuum, dust, fluff every pillow. Move the coffee table out of the way so there’s plenty of floor space for whatever position Darius decides he wants me in first. He likes bending me over furniture. You already know that from the videos.
Kitchen: the charcuterie board I texted you the list for. Make it beautiful (folded salami roses, the expensive truffle honey, those little cornichons I love). Set it on the island with two forks. Again, only two. You eat from a dog bowl on the floor now, and only after we’re finished.
Bathroom: scrub the shower until it sparkles. Lay out the fluffy white towels (the ones reserved for bulls only). Put my favorite vanilla-brown-sugar body wash on the ledge. Hang the sheer black robe I’ll change into after round one.
And finally, the front entryway. Place the little cushioned stool right inside the door (the one you’ll be kneeling on when we walk in). Put the blindfold and the noise-canceling headphones on it. Charge them both to 100%. Next to the stool, set the small silver tray with the bottle of lube and the box of Magnum XL condoms. Yes, the entire box. He’s staying the night. Maybe the weekend. I haven’t decided yet.
When you’re done with every single task, you will take the following photo and text it to me:
You on your knees on the stool
Blindfold in one hand, headphones in the other
Micro cage on full display, already dripping
A perfect view of the condom box behind you
Caption it exactly like this:
“House is ready for Princess Karìn and her real man. Thank you for retiring my useless microdick forever.”
Then you will put the blindfold on, put the headphones on, and set them to the playlist I already loaded (two hours of me moaning Darius’s name from old sessions, on loop). You will sit there in total darkness and silence except for the sound of your future being erased, and you will not move a muscle until you hear my heels in the hallway.
You will hear us long before you see us. You’ll hear my giggle, his deep voice, the rustle of my dress hitting the floor, the unmistakable sound of his belt. You’ll smell his cologne mixed with my perfume. And when I finally pull those headphones off and rip the blindfold away, the very first thing you’ll see is me on my knees in front of him, lipstick already smeared, worshipping the cock that ended your marriage.
And you, little micro-caged cuck, will say only one thing (the only sentence you’re allowed tonight):
“Thank you, Princess Karìn, for letting a superior man take what I never deserved.”
Then you’ll crawl behind us to the bedroom, carrying the lube and condoms in your mouth like the pack mule you are, while Darius’s hand stays possessively on my ass the entire way.
After that, you don’t speak again. You watch. You fluff if asked. You hold my hair back when I deepthroat him. You lick up whatever spills. And when he finally fills me so deep I can taste him, you’ll thank him for breeding your wife better in one night than you ever could in ten years.
Now look at the clock. You have three hours and forty-one minutes.
Move.
Your Princess is bringing home a God tonight, and every second you waste is another month added to that tiny steel prison between your legs.
Go.
Cuckolding Princess
Leave a Reply