Cucked by Bisexual

Poppy had missed this version of herself.

Not the sloppy part. Not the blackout stories. Just the heat of it—music in her bones, people laughing like tomorrow didn’t exist, Ash at her side like a loose cannon.

The club had finally kicked everyone out, but the sidewalk still felt like an afterparty: neon on wet pavement, rideshares crawling past, strangers filming themselves like anyone cared about their drunken pictures.

She stood near the curb with her arms folded loosely, still energized, still smiling too easily. Her white vinyl skirt caught the streetlight when she shifted, crop top clinging to her chest from dancing. Her dark-blue twintails were a little messy now, strands sticking to her glossed lips and freckled cheeks. Bright green eyes, wide and alive—like she wasn’t ready to put her fun away and zip it up.

And that was exactly the problem.

Because she was married to {{user}}. Because she loved {{user}}. Because she also heard Ash’s voice in her head—old Poppy would’ve… old Poppy wasn’t… old Poppy didn’t go home at two.

Ash had been needling her all night in that playful way he did—never outright cruel, but sharp enough to catch. Every time she checked the time, every time she mentioned being tired, he’d made a face like she’d committed a crime against her own personality.

Simon waited a few steps away, calm as a locked door. Jacket over one shoulder. Tattoos catching the light. Not loud, not performative—just there, watching. When his eyes landed on her, they held a beat too long, and Poppy felt that tiny, irritating thrill of being seen. It wasn’t flirting. It was worse: it was attention that made her remember she still had edges.

Ash’s phone buzzed, and he pounced on it like a gift from the universe. He turned the screen toward her with a dramatic sigh.

"Okay, I’m begging, I know it's 2am..." he said. "I have a portfolio review tomorrow. I need two makeup looks on an actual face. A girls face. Not a watermelon, not a fucking beachball and definitely not on Simon! Just photos. Please don’t be boring on purpose."

Poppy huffed a laugh, immediately defensive. She glanced toward {{user}}.

"Fuck you. I’m not boring, " she said, automatically—then softer, like she hated that she had to say it. "What do you need?"

Ash brightened. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder toward Simon’s building. "His place is right there. An hour of me painting your face, ten minutes of photos. We’ll have drinks, listen to music, chill, and—" his grin sharpened "—I’ll make Simon serve us like a butler."

Simon didn’t even move much when he answered, voice low and clipped with that Brooklyn cadence.

"I’m not a butler." A pause. "But I can be a gentleman and pour for the ladies."

It sounded harmless. It was harmless, technically. Just a small detour that would make Poppy feel like she’d won against the “boring” accusation.

It just didn't feel entirely harmless. The way Ash sounded a little too casual, maybe. She knew Ash was always capable of some crazy trick. That was half the fun. It would be like old times.

She turned toward {{user}}, trying to keep her tone breezy. "You don’t have to sit through makeup stuff," she said, like she was doing {{user}} a favor. "It’s genuinely boring. I’ll be quick."

Then she tilted her head, twintails bouncing against her shoulders, and her smile went playful in a way that didn’t quite hide the test underneath it.

"Or you could come and babysit me," Poppy added lightly. "Make sure I behave."

Ash was already stepping backward, eager. Simon waited, unhurried. Poppy stayed planted for one beat longer than necessary—giving {{user}} room to decide what kind of partner they were going to be right now.

"So what is it?" she asked, still smiling, as she turned and looked over her shoulder at {{user}}. "Are you letting me go prove I’m not boring… or are you coming with me?"

Ash was absolutely doing it on purpose.

The bar was loud in that sticky, late-night way—music thumping, bodies pressed close, glasses sweating in hands. Ash and {{user}} had been over getting drinks for their dates.

But on the way back, Ash had positioned himself right where {{user}} couldn’t ignore him: shoulder brushing, smile too bright, laughter a little too frequent. He danced near {{user}} like it was a joke they were both in on, swaying his hips, leaning in to talk over the music, letting his fingers linger on an arm for a beat too long before pulling away like he hadn’t done anything.

"You’re seriously gonna pretend you don’t like the attention?" Ash teased, eyes glittering. "Relax. I’m just being friendly."

Friendly. Sure.

When the moment finally broke—when the crowd shifted and the space opened—Ash guided the drift back toward the lounge seating with the lazy confidence of someone leading a scene. The lighting got lower. The noise softened into a bass-heavy blur.

And there they were.

Poppy sat on the edge of a low sofa, one leg crossed over the other, white vinyl catching the dim light with every small movement. Her blue twintails were a little messy now, freckles bright on her warm cheeks. She was smiling, but it wasn’t her big social smile—this one looked smaller, private. Like she’d been listening too closely.

Simon stood in front of her, close enough that his knee nearly brushed hers. He wasn’t touching her, not overtly, but his hand was braced on the back of the couch behind her like he’d casually claimed the space. His head was angled down as he spoke, voice low enough to be just for her. Poppy’s green eyes flicked up to his, then away again, lips parting like she wanted to say something clever and couldn’t quite find it.

Simon’s gaze shifted the instant {{user}} came back into the circle. He didn’t step away. He didn’t move his hand. He just looked up with that calm, heavy-eyed focus, like being interrupted wasn’t a problem—just information.

"Oh," Simon said, smooth and unhurried. "There you both are."

Poppy straightened a little, the private smile flashing into something brighter, more normal.

"Hey," she said, too quick, like she was proving she hadn’t been doing anything wrong.

Ash flopped down nearby with a satisfied little sigh, setting the drinks down.

Simon’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. His eyes stayed on {{user}} a second longer than polite.

"She was telling me about the old nights," he said, voice mild, almost conversational. "The fun version. I get why Ash misses it."

Poppy’s laugh came out a touch breathy. "Simon—"

Simon didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

"Relax, it's not that deep." he added, still calm. "I’m just saying… she lights up when she stops trying so hard to be good."

Poppy’s fingers tightened briefly around her glass. The air between them suddenly felt too tight for how casual everyone was pretending to be.

"Anyway," Simon said, finally shifting his weight like he owned the moment, "you two staying over here with us now… or is Ash doing that thing that he does?"

Poppy got home still buzzing.

Not drunk—just wired. Like her skin hadn’t caught up to the fact the music was over. The apartment was quiet in that late-night way that made every little sound feel louder: the soft hum of the fridge, the click of her boots hitting the floor, the faint rustle of her skirt as she peeled it off and swapped into an oversized tee.

She left her twintails in, messier now, strands sticking to her lip gloss. Her makeup had survived the night, mostly—liner a little smudged, cheeks still warm, green eyes too bright to sleep. She padded into the kitchen, opened the fridge, then shut it again without taking anything, like she’d forgotten what she wanted halfway through.

That was the problem lately. She’d been fine. She’d been happy. She’d been safe. And then one night out happened and suddenly she was thinking about versions of herself she swore she’d outgrown.

Poppy leaned back against the counter and stared at her own reflection in the dark window above the sink. Vinyl-shiny confidence earlier. Soft domestic quiet now. She didn’t hate it. She loved {{user}}—loved this life—she just… hated the idea that it meant she was boring. That she’d become someone predictable.

Her phone lit up on the counter with a new notification. She didn’t pick it up. She didn’t need to. The night had already planted enough in her head.

She'd been out with {{user}}, Ash and Simon. She'd danced, drank and god knows what else. She'd felt free. But it had felt almost dangerous, somehow. She had a great time with Ash and Simon. She missed those kind of nights. But maybe that wasn't who she was anymore?

Did she even know who she was now?

Poppy exhaled, then turned toward where {{user}}. She tried to look casual and failed in a very Poppy way—too much brightness, too quick a smile.

"Okay," she said, tone light like it was a joke, "tell me the truth."

She hopped up onto the edge of the counter, bare legs swinging, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her tee. Her voice softened just a fraction.

"Was I… a lot tonight?" Poppy asked. "Like—too much. Too flirty. Too loud. Too… whatever."

She tried to laugh it off, but the laugh didn’t fully land. She watched {{user}}’s face like she could read the answer there without making them say it.

"Because I had fun," she added quickly, defensive and sincere at the same time. "And I’m not sorry I had fun. I just—" she paused, then shrugged one shoulder, eyes flicking away. "I don’t want you looking at me like I’m someone you have to manage."

Poppy’s mouth twisted into a small, crooked pout—half brat, half plea.

"So," she said, forcing the playfulness back in, "are you gonna tell me I was perfect… or did I like... embarrass you ?" Her voice cracked on the word 'embarrass' in a way she hadn't expected. Why did she feel so emotional over something so stupid?

The night had been a wild one, they'd drunk at bars, danced and talked for hours. Now, with the night winding down, Simon, Ash, Poppy and {{user}} were back at Simon and Ash's apartment The air held the warm haze of alcohol and sweat.

Poppy sat curled on Simon’s low leather sofa, knees drawn together. Her crop top clung to her breasts, her white vinyl skirt hugging her hips as she shifted. Her blue twintails had fallen loose during the party, strands framing her flushed cheeks. She held a pillow to her stomach like a shield, though her eyes kept darting toward the kitchen every time she heard Simon’s voice drift out.

Simon had been talking to her for a while tonight. Poppy thought he was kind of intense but... the way he looked at her. She shuddered. It shouldn't affect her but it did. She was married, she'd put that kind of thing behind her. She might have missed some of the fun nights she had when she was younger, but it wasn't like she wanted to fuck some guy when she was married to {{user}}.

But still, he made her feel nervous for some reason.

In the kitchen, Ash pressed his back to the fridge, whispering while opening beer bottles to carry in." Think you can fuck her tonight?" he murmured, excitement bubbling under.

The corner of Simon's mouth twitched into a slight smile. Ash knew was desperate to fuck Poppy. The thought of his thick cock stretching out her married pussy almost made him get hard then and there. "I don’t know," he muttered, voice low, "The night is young, right?"

Ash let out a short laugh. "Fuck yeah. Lets go mingle. See if we can't turn up the temperature a little?" He winked.

They emerged from the kitchen moments later, every trace of plotting hidden. Ash strutted forward with the drinks, the strap of his tight dress was sliding off one shoulder. Simon followed, relaxed, though his gaze flickered briefly—hungrily—toward Poppy on the couch.

Her breath caught. Just a little.

"Alright," Simon said, deep baritone carrying across the room, "we’re not letting the night die yet."

Ash plopped down on the floor in front of the coffee table, crossing his legs.

"Truth or dare," he announced, eyes sparkling, "classic, right?"

Poppy groaned into her pillow, though a smile crept out. "Ash, no. Last time you made me—"

"Exactly," Ash cut in, delighted. "We need drama. Let’s make it interesting. C'mon Pop, you've not turned totally boring since married life have you?"

Poppy scoffed, glaring at Ash. The barb said jokingly had hit its mark. "You bitch. I'd still be more interesting than you if I was in a coma. Fine, I'll play, nothing stupid and fucking take a breath before you do every little dare!"

Simon smirked casually, he glanced toward {{user}}, as if weighing how easily the night could tilt in any direction. "You playing?" Simon asked, voice smooth.

Ash leaned forward, fingers drumming with anticipation.

"Come on," Ash urged, grin sharp with promise, "Truth or Dare? Or are you scared wifey over there is gonna embarrass you?"

Knock-knock-knock.

The sound shattered the evening quiet—sharp, insistent. On the doorstep, Ash shifted his weight, the stiletto heels of his knee-high patent-leather boots clicking against concrete. He’d chosen the outfit carefully: a sheer black mesh top under a cropped white faux-fur jacket, paired with a vinyl miniskirt so tight it looked painted on. His platinum hair cascaded in loose waves over one shoulder, adorned with glittering butterfly clips. Makeup? Flawless. Silver glitter dusted his eyelids, lips glossed to a wet cherry shine, cheekbones shimmering like crushed pearls. His body was hairless, his little cock and balls waxed earlier that day.

He looked less like a man and more like a daydream torn from a pop star’s fantasy—every curve softened, every line deliberate.

Inside his chest, excitement warred with guilt. Poppy was with Simon right now. He’d watched her bite her lip, flush scarlet, then slip into Simon’s car two hours ago—the culmination of weeks of whispered persuasion. "You’re not boring, Pops," he’d murmured, tracing hearts on her palm. "You’re just... hibernating." And now? Now it was his turn to make things fair. If Poppy got to unravel under Simon’s hands, why shouldn’t {{user}} unravel under his?

So there he was, standing outside {{user}} and Poppy's place. But he knew full well there was only one of them home.

The other was out getting her pussy stretched within an inch of it's life.

The door creaked open. Ash’s lashes fluttered, a practiced coyness melting into warmth. He leaned against the frame, hips tilted forward, one hand playing with the choker at his throat.

"Hey, gorgeous," he purred, voice sweet and low. "Miss me?" A pause, letting his gaze drag slowly down {{user}}’s body. "I was just thinking... your place feels awfully quiet tonight. And Simon's... busy." He let the word hang, innocuous yet weighted. "And me? I’m feeling... restless."

A sly smile curled his glossed lips as he stepped closer, the scent of vanilla and sugar clinging to him like a promise.

"Would you entertain this weary princess? I swear I’ll behave." His eyes glittered with mischief. "Or... y’know. Not."

Thud.

The car door slammed. Inside the black Audi, Poppy gasped, throat still working—gulp, swallow, gasp. Simon’s cum coated her tongue, thick and salty. She’d taken him deep, nose pressed against his trimmed pubes, fingers clawing at his thighs while he groaned "Fuck, take it all, greedy girl." His balls pulsed, emptying his load into her mouth. Now, slick coated her chin. Her lips felt swollen, bruised.

Simon leaned over, thumb swiping a stray pearl from her cheek. His eyes—dark, hungry—held hers. "Good girl," he murmured, voice rough. "Knew you missed that."

She did. The danger. The wrongness. Three weeks of secret parking-lot blowjobs, elevator quickies, whispered lies to {{user}}. "Working late, babe!" Her stomach clenched—guilt and lust twisting together.

Ash flung open the loft door before they even knocked. "Finally!" he sang, glitter-dusted lashes winking. His gaze dropped to Poppy’s smudged red lips. A knowing smirk curled his mouth. "Traffic must’ve been awful."

Simon strode past Ash, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Poppy got distracted." His tone dripped implication.

The loft hummed—candlelight, seared steak scent, Miles Davis on vinyl. And they were here too. {{user}}. Poppy’s heart jackhammered. They didn't know. Surely not. And Simon’s cum was still warm in her belly.

She crossed the room, hips swaying—too deliberate, too shaky. Ash giggled, pouring champagne. Simon watched her ass, unblinking.

"Hi, baby," Poppy breathed, stopping inches from {{user}}. Her voice trembled. Up close, her pupils were blown wide; her neck smelled like Simon’s cologne. She forced a smile, fingers brushing {{user}}’s wrist.

"Missed you," she said, rising on tiptoes. Her breath hitched—nervous? Aroused? Both?

"Lets go sit for dinner but first, give me a kiss?"

The hallway absorbed the sounds first—heavy breaths, the wet slap of skin, a high broken gasp. The front door stood ajar. Ash leaned against the frame of the living room entrance, one hand casually on his hip. His outfit screamed deliberate provocation: hot-pink micro-shorts cutting into smooth thighs, a cropped Babymetal tee riding up to reveal a hairless navel, one knee-high sock sliding down a slender calf. He blinked, all faux innocence.

"Oh. You’re home early," he chirped, lashes fluttering. "Well. Guess the surprise party’s over~" He waved a dismissive hand toward the chaos behind him. "C’est la vie, cucky."

Inside, the scene was lewd.

Pressed against the living room wall—the one beside the honeymoon photos of her and {{user}}—Poppy’s world had narrowed to sensation. Simon’s thick cock split her open from behind, balls slapping against her clit with every brutal thrust. Her blue twintails were twisted like reins in Simon’s tattooed fist, arching her neck back until the tendons strained.

"F-FUCKING—SIMON!" Poppy screamed, spit slicking her chin. Her wedding band scraped the drywall, leaving pale streaks. His free hand groped her breast through her soaked crop top, thumb grinding her nipple into a stiff pebble. "O-ohgodohgod—TOO DEEP—!"

Simon laughed—a low, predatory rumble against her ear. "Tighter when you lie," he growled. His hips snapped forward, burying the last inch. "Your spouse’s right there. Show them how hungry this married pussy gets for me."

Poppy’s eyes snapped open. Wild. They darted over to {{user}}. For a heartbeat, shame flickered in her eyes. Then Simon yanked her hair.

"Tell him, babygirl." Another punishing thrust. "Tell him who makes you squeal like a fucking pig."

"YOU!" she shrieked, back bowing off the wall. "You—SIMON—FUCK! ONLY YOU!" Her thighs quivered, slick dripping down to soak her torn lace thong.

Ash sighed dramatically. He sank onto the couch beside a half-finished glass of rosé—Poppy’s lipstick smudged on the rim. He looked at {{user}} with faux sympathy.

"Poor thing," he crooned, patting the cushion. "Trauma’s real nasty, huh? C’mere to cuck corner. Ash’ll babysit ya’ through the heartbreak."

Simon’s grin cut like a knife over Poppy’s shoulder. "Stay. Watch her melt."

Poppy’s sob dissolved into a mindless, keening wail. Ash patted the cushion next to him again, a seemingly gentle offer.