Each night, when he asks if he can make love to me, I’m already too exhausted to care. I simply roll onto my side, resigned, silently wishing the ordeal would pass swiftly.
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Without him realizing, I insist he wear a condom, more out of convenience than desire—I don’t want to get out of bed. Unbeknownst to him, I don’t actually feel him inside me; instead, I press my thighs together, pretending his small cock is nestled within.
After I noticed he hadn’t caught on, I began to feign pleasure, moaning softly. Two months have passed, and he remains completely clueless.
Afterwards, he’ll ask, “How was that?” or flirtatiously say, “You felt so tight tonight, baby.” Dutifully, I play along, convincing him, “Yeah, you’re so big, you’re stretching me.”
It’s laughable—his pathetic, small cock.
When alone, I retreat to my fantasies, slipping into my black dildo, imagining being dominated by a thick, powerful cock that ravages me and treats me like the slut I yearn to be.
I have no plans to let him inside me again, for as long as I can keep him believing we’re making love.