My birthday was set for July 7th, but the anticipation began building two days earlier.
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For months, I’d been dropping subtle hints—no, blatant hints—about wanting to experience a genuine cuckold fantasy. Not just playacting or fantasies whispered in the dark, but the raw vulnerability of watching Lily share herself with another man, the man I secretly feared might never really be me.
On July 5th, I finally summoned the courage and asked her straight: “Cuck me for my birthday.” Her answer was immediate and decisive: “Yes. How do you want it?”
“Surprise me,” I said, breathless. “No limits, whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Minutes later, my phone buzzed with a screenshot: she was already on a call with Andrew—the guy we’d tentatively discussed before, the one who stirred a cocktail of jealousy and arousal inside me. Nineteen minutes deep into their conversation.
“So soon?” I messaged, my heart hammering.
“Just the appetizer,” she replied coyly. “Wait for the main course.”
—
The day before the big event, July 6th, I was filled equal parts nervous and eager, my eyes glued to my phone.
Then came the blow: Andrew canceled. The plans—dinner, a horror movie for clingy moments, a night meant to ignite forbidden sparks—were abruptly off.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
I was crushed. Yet, Lily never leaves me empty-handed.
“If it helps, I had a daydream,” she texted, weaving a vivid tale: the three of us trapped together between closing walls, her pressed tightly against Andrew, my desperate hands trying to pry them apart, only for her to push me away, craving every moment. The tension, the frustration, the heat becoming unbearable.
I read her words on the plane home, my body aching and my mind swirling.
“I want to jerk off to it in the airport bathroom,” I admitted.
“Nope,” she replied firmly. “Hold it in.”
—
July 7th arrived. I landed at 10 PM, exhausted, starving, desperate to hear her voice.
“I’ll call after I eat,” I texted.
Her icy response cut through me: “I don’t care. I’ll be on call with Andrew.” Just like that—dismissed.
I hurried through dinner, barely tasting a bite. When I messaged again, she was already deep in their world: sharing laughter, tender touches, and the comfort of Andrew’s voice in her ear.
“You’re a fucking loser for this,” she teased. “And I love it.”
Then came her orders—specific, degrading, and utterly electrifying.
“Fuck yourself with a fork,” she commanded. “Scratch yourself while I talk to him.”
I obeyed. Sharp pain lanced through me; a hint of blood stained my skin. Yet I climaxed harder than I had in months, fueled by her voice describing her delight with another.
“No point talking now,” she said smugly after I told her I’d finished. “You already came.”
She chastised me for interrupting, for being in her space when she belonged to someone else. Each message slammed into me, yet I cherished every bite of humiliation.
—
At midnight, my phone lit up with a photo: Lily, legs parted, fingers teasing herself, cheeks flushed with desire.
“Happy birthday, bitch,” the text teased. “I’m rubbing myself to him, not you, because tonight he’s my boyfriend.”
I came again immediately, pitiful and undone.
Desperate, I begged to listen. She called me on another device, her tablet set beside my phone, her voice laced with cruelty and ecstasy while Andrew’s presence lingered on the other line.
What unfolded shattered me.
She spat every harsh word she could muster—my desperation, my insignificance compared to him, my pathetic yearning. Andrew’s casual affirmations and flirtatious murmurs echoed as she painted her face just for him, the brush strokes whispering through the silence.
I heard her come—a sharp intake of breath, the shudder, the exhale—all for Andrew, as I sat powerless with my own mess.
Their laughter and teasing filled the night until 3 AM, forging a connection I was excluded from. I remained awake, aching, precisely where she wanted me.
At last, I broke, begging her to stop, to notice me, to come back.
She ended the call and sent a single line: “That was your first birthday gift.”
—
I slept a scant four hours and woke hard once more.
Lily was still asleep. Andrew might have been too—or maybe they just didn’t tell me when they finally stopped.
The fork’s scratches were still raw on my skin, a vivid reminder of the night. The sting of humiliation lingered fierce and fresh.
I don’t know what her next gift will be.
I’m not sure if I can bear it.
But I’ll try. Because I want every excruciating moment.
Happy birthday to me.
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