Paul delves into a world of forbidden fantasies as he writes his novel about submission and desire. When Clara visits him, their friendship takes an intimate and revealing turn.
The monitor emitted a blue light that reflected off Paul's glasses, faintly illuminating the dark circles under his eyes as his fingers slid over the trackpad with mechanical, almost obsessive movements. The Blinder Novels page was open in a tab, but it wasn't its author profile that had him absorbed that night, but rather the netorare and cuckold section, a genre he had until then only touched with morbid curiosity. The thumbnails on the covers showed suggestive scenes: wives with lascivious gazes while other men touched them, husbands kneeling with expressions somewhere between pain and ecstasy, bodies intertwined in compositions that screamed submission and lust. His breathing became heavier as he clicked on one of the highest-rated stories, "The Broken Mirror," where the protagonist described in vulgar detail how his wife moaned beneath his boss's body while he, hidden behind the half-open door, masturbated with tears in his eyes.
Paul couldn't tear his eyes away. The words dragged him, not just because of the morbid curiosity, but because of something deeper: the rawness with which the character's internal conflicts were portrayed. "It's not just the sex," he thought as he ran his finger over his lower lip, unconsciously biting it. "It's the guilt. The excitement of being replaced. The shame of wanting it." His own pants were starting to get tight in the crotch, but he ignored the discomfort, immersing himself in another scene where the wife, legs spread across a stranger's lap in a bar, whispered into the phone, "Honey, do you know where I am right now?" The text described how the husband, on the other end of the line, silently came while listening to the other's gasps.
"Fuck," he muttered, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, his reflection in the black monitor screen stared back at him: a slender, twenty-eight-year-old man with unkempt brown hair and a stubble of beard he never bothered to trim. He wasn't ugly, but he wasn't flashy either. Perfect for the role, he joked. With a click, he opened a blank document. "Project: 'The Pact of Mirrors,'" he typed at the top, his fingers trembling slightly on the keyboard. It wasn't the first time he'd tried to write something of his own, but this time he felt the genre understood him. Or maybe it was the other way around: that he, finally, understood the genre.
The first lines flowed easily, almost like an exorcism. His protagonist, Daniel, would be a guy like him: insecure, intelligent, with a wife who effortlessly oozed sensuality. But unlike the clichés, Daniel wouldn't be a creep. "There has to be more to it," he mused as he typed. "Not just humiliation, but… appreciation. The cuckold isn't a zero; he's someone who finds beauty in being a witness. In giving up control without losing his dignity." The words excited him. Every scene he imagined—his character hiding in the closet while his wife was penetrated against the living room wall, the muffled moans, the smell of other people's sex permeating the air—made him adjust in his seat, the bulge in his jeans now impossible to ignore.
Weeks passed, and the document filled with pages. Paul lived in a cycle of writing and self-loathing: after each session, he slammed the laptop shut, as if he could drown the guilt between its hinges. The reviews on Blinder were a roller coaster. "Pathetic. Who's getting off on this?" one user commented. "Finally, someone who understands cuck psychology. More, please," another said. The praise emboldened him; the insults gnawed at him. One night, after reading a particularly cruel comment—"Your protagonist is a coward who deserves to be cuckolded for real"—he slammed the screen shut and stared at his sweaty hands. "What the fuck am I doing?" he wondered. But the next day, he'd open the file again, like an addict who can't kick drugs.
It was a rainy afternoon, with the sound of drops hitting the glass of his study, when something changed. He had a steaming black coffee in his hands, the steam mixing with the scent of old paper from the books stacked on the desk. He reread the last chapter he had written: Daniel, tied to a chair, watched as his wife, Sofia, rode a lover in their own bed, her breasts swaying, her face contorted in an orgasm that was not meant for him. But this time, instead of describing the scene with disdain, Paul had added a new detail: "Daniel felt his heart pound, not from the pain, but from the beauty of seeing her like that, free. For the first time, he didn't feel less, but part of something bigger than his ego." He closed his eyes and took a sip of the coffee, burning his tongue without caring. "It's not just humiliation," he suddenly understood. "It's… devotion. It's finding pleasure in another's desire because, in some way, it includes you too."
The sound of the door opening startled him. He hadn't heard the doorbell.
"Paul, you pervert," a husky, playful female voice whispered from the doorway. It was Clara, his college friend, the only person who knew about his literary hobbies. She was wearing a wet coat that clung to her curves, highlighting the outline of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. Her black hair fell in unruly strands over her shoulders, and her lips, painted a dark red, curved into a mischievous smile at the sight. "Writing down your forbidden fantasies again?"
Paul tried to reply, but the words caught in his throat. Clara advanced toward him with feline steps, leaving a trail of water droplets on the wooden floor. When she was close enough, she dropped her bag to the floor and leaned down, wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug that smelled of rain and citrus perfume. Her breasts brushed his shoulder, and Paul caught his breath.
"Clara, I..." he stammered, but she interrupted him with a kiss on the cheek, too close to the corner of his lips.
"I know you read to me aloud when you're alone," she whispered, her hot breath making him shudder. "I'd bet my yaoi collection that you get hard imagining every scene."
"It's not…" Paul tried to protest, but his voice came out weak and lacking in conviction. Clara didn't give him the chance. In one fluid motion, she sat on his lap, astraddling him, her thighs pressing against his. The heat from her body seeped through the fabric of his jeans, and Paul felt his already semi-erect cock harden instantly, pressing against the zipper. Clara noticed, of course. She always noticed.
"Mmm," she purred, moving her hips just an inch, enough for him to groan unintentionally. "See? Even your little thing knows I'm lying when I say you don't turn me on."
"Fuck, Clara," Paul closed his eyes, his sweaty hands resting on his hips, not daring to lower them. "It's not funny."
She laughed, a low, sensual sound, and took his chin between her fingers, forcing him to look at her.
"I didn't laugh," he said, his tone suddenly serious, almost tender. "I love that you're writing this. That you're exploring what turns you on, no matter how weird it is."
"But sometimes I feel... dirty," he confessed, his voice cracking. "Like there's something wrong with me for getting off on this."
Clara stared at him for a long second, her fingers caressing his cheek. Then, without warning, she kissed him. It wasn't a chaste or playful kiss: it was deep, wet, with tongue and teeth grazing her lips. Paul gasped against her mouth, his hands finally giving way and sliding to her rear, squeezing her firm buttocks through the fabric of her tight skirt. She moaned in response, rubbing against him in circular motions, feeling his erection throb between them.
"Nothing you desire is bad," Clara murmured against his lips, her hand sliding between their bodies to brush the outline of his cock over the fabric. "The problem isn't the fantasy, darling. It's when you let it define you."
Paul wanted to believe her. God, how he did. But when she pulled away slightly, leaving his lips swollen and his mind clouded, a question burned inside him:
"What if I can't separate them?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Fantasy from reality?"
Clara didn't respond with words. Instead, she stood slowly, letting him feel the loss of her warmth. She removed her wet coat and hung it over the back of a chair, revealing the sheer blouse that left little to the imagination: her dark, hard nipples pressing against the fabric. Then, with a smile that was pure provocation, she knelt in front of him.
"You don't have to separate them," he said, unbuckling the belt of his jeans with nimble fingers. "You just have to live them."
Paul didn't have time to react. Clara's fingers freed his cock, already dripping with precum, and before he could protest (or beg, he wasn't sure which), she took it into her mouth, hot and wet, swallowing it all the way down her throat in one expert motion. Pleasure hit him like a train, wringing a guttural moan from him. His hips instinctively bucked, thrusting deeper, and Clara accepted it, gagging slightly before pulling back, leaving a trickle of saliva glistening between her lips and the tip of his member.
"Look," she whispered, stroking the fluid dripping from his cock with her fingers. "This isn't dirty. It's human. And if you want to write about cuckolds cumming while watching their wives fuck other men, go for it. But never, ever let yourself convince yourself that you're less for being desired."
Paul stared down, mesmerized by the sight: Clara, on her knees, her lips red and shiny, his cock throbbing in her hands, the sound of the rain in the background like a knowing whisper. For a moment, everything clicked. Fantasy, reality, desire… they were all parts of him, and maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to choose.
But when Clara brought it back to her mouth, sucking hard while her green eyes looked at him with a mixture of lust and tenderness, a question lingered in his mind, like an echo that would not fade:
What happens when the line between what you write and what you live is completely erased?