What You Don’t Get to See

This is the part they let you watch.

Just the mouth.
Just the wet.
Just enough to make your hand twitch and your pride feel small. You don’t get the rest.

You don’t get the sound she makes
when she takes him deeper and her throat goes tight around him.

You don’t get the way her glasses slip or how her eyes flick up like she’s daring the camera
to keep looking.

You don’t get the hand in her hair.

The slow, filthy rhythm that isn’t for you.
The little moan she swallows because it’s his, not yours.
Cuck.
Stay there.
Watch what you’ll never have unless you submit.

Imagine what happens when the video cuts.

When the camera drops.
When she’s still on her knees and he’s still hard and there’s no audience left except the two of them.

That’s the part that ruins you.
The way she lets him use her mouth like it belongs to him.

The spit.
The mess.
The quiet, ugly little sounds that don’t make it into the clip because those are private.

You can edge to the idea of it.
You can stroke to the thought of her lips stretched, her chin wet, her bratty little “good boy” being said to someone else.

But you don’t get to be in the room.

You don’t get to touch.
You don’t get to finish the way he does.
Not unless you pay for the privilege of being allowed to want it.
Not unless you submit and admit that this mouth, this throat, this spoiled Canadian brat
is never going to look at you the way she looks at him.

So keep watching.
Keep leaking.
Keep telling yourself that wanting this is the closest you’ll ever get.
Unless you send.
Unless you kneel.
Unless you earn the right to see what happens after the video ends.

That’s the deal.
That’s the poem.
That’s all a cuck like you is allowed to have
until you prove you can afford the rest.