Jerry's wife

After the BNWO took over, her boyfriend’s dick became useless.

She had it removed cleanly. No ceremony. No discussion. Just another practical adjustment to the new order. Now it sat on her desk like a strange little trophy—pale, soft, and slightly wrinkled, mounted on a small wooden base next to her pens and notebooks.

Sometimes she forgot it used to be attached to him.

She would reach over while working, absently stroke it between her fingers, squeeze it, bend it this way and that. It felt more like a stress toy than anything that had ever belonged to a man. Occasionally she would bring it close to her body—press it against the outside of her panties, drag the head along her slit, or rest it against her asshole—just to feel the contrast. But she never put it inside. That privilege belonged to superior cock now. White ones didn’t deserve it.

Her boyfriend still lived in the same apartment, quieter than before, eyes always lowered. Sometimes she would call him over while she played with the severed piece of him.

“Remember this?” she would ask, holding it up, giving it a few lazy strokes.

She would bend it, stretch it, even slap it lightly against her thigh while he watched. Once she held it right at the entrance of her pussy, rubbing the soft head between her lips, and smiled at the look on his face.

“Almost,” she whispered. “But no. You don’t get that anymore. None of you do.”

Then she would set it back on the desk, wipe her fingers, and go back to work—already thinking about me who would actually be allowed inside her.