Is she fucking kidding

You stare at the paused frame of yourself in the cuck chair and the empty OnlyFans sign-up page. The words “baby-dick cucking fans” hang in the air like a slap.

Something snaps.

You stand up so fast the chair scrapes hard against the floor.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice comes out louder than you expect. “You recorded me. You put me in that chair on purpose, filmed it, and now you’re sitting here telling me to create an account so you can sell it? What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

You start pacing the small bedroom, hands in your hair, words tumbling out faster.

“This whole time—every video, every text, every ‘which one was your favorite, baby’—you’ve been using my MacBook and my phone messages to build content? You didn’t ‘accidentally’ have them send the files to me. You needed the downloads. You needed the reactions. You needed me sitting there like a prop.”

She stays seated on the edge of the bed, still in the short night shirt, watching you calmly while you wear a path in the carpet.

“You’re selling me. You’re selling the fact that I watched. You’re packaging my humiliation and calling it the family business. And you want me to help you upload it?”

You stop pacing long enough to snatch your phone off the desk. The cracked screen still shows the last message thread.

“I’m done. I’m so fucking done.”

You hurl the phone at her. It hits the mattress beside her hip with a dull thud and bounces once. She doesn’t flinch.

You’re already moving. You grab your keys, shove past the doorway, and storm down the hall. The front door opens hard and slams harder behind you as you leave in a pure, shaking huff, the image of the cuck-chair video and her calm OnlyFans request still burning behind your eyes.