The Anatomy of a Cuckold

I need to write this down. I need to carve it into this digital stone because I can never, ever speak these words aloud to another living human being.

A while back, I broke the perimeter. I spoke to one of the exes. The phantom on the line.

He didn’t just talk; he butchered the entire landscape of my reality with the casual precision of a surgeon. He told me he married Anusha. A while back, in a temple. No elders present, just a secret, binding ritual in the dark.

I sat there, listening to the rushing sound of my own blood in my ears, and I said, “Fine.” I told him I didn’t care. I lied with the flat, dead affect of a corpse.

Then he kept talking. He told me he visits her regularly. That he’s some fancy, successful guy, and she is—his exact, rotting words—“his cum dump whore.” He spouted endless, visceral filth about what he does in her house when no one is around.

And suddenly, the architecture of my past collapsed into perfect, humiliating clarity. The neighbors in the basement that day my tire was slashed. They were confused. They thought I was him. “Didn’t you already come a few times? Why do you keep coming?” they had screamed at me. I was just a physical stand-in. A body occupying the space he had already marked.

And she still talks to him. She continued to talk to him after all of this. Why? I don’t know. The reasons are entirely alien to me.

After I spoke to him, she supposedly stopped contacting them for a few weeks. But the damage is done. The egg is cracked. I am mentally, profoundly fucked.

Over the last few months, my sleep has turned into a slaughterhouse.

I keep having these dreams. Not abstract nightmares, but hyper-realistic, HD projections where I am reduced to a cuck. I am paralyzed, a spectator in my own bed, helplessly watching these men come in and do the deed with her. And it is getting worse. The infection is spreading.

Slowly, as the days progress, the dreams involve me. They drag me into the squalor. I am on my knees, cleaning their creampies out of her with my mouth. Later, I am cleaning the juices off their dicks after they finish. I used to wake up violently, bathed in a freezing sweat, screaming in the dark.

But then the horror mutated.

I started getting aroused. I started enjoying it in the dream. The sheer, bottomless humiliation became a narcotic. And now? Now I am actively searching for this kind of porn when I am awake.

WTF.

Am I bisexual? Did I need this exact, precise psychological torture to finally shatter the glass and make me realize it? Why? Why this route?

My life is an absolute, unavoidable hell anyway. I am entirely incapable of absorbing the torture of my own existence for a single minute while I am conscious. I am nothing. I am an empty suit, a fractured spectator watching a movie of a man losing his mind. So for the rest of the time, to shut the agonizing reality out?

I am just gooning.