The doorbell rang, slicing through the heavy silence of the room. Ian sat stiffly in the chair by the window, his wrists bound to its arms with cold metal cuffs. He was entirely exposed beneath the hood, his naked skin chilled by the air that seemed to press in from every direction. A cock cage squeezed his genitals, a constant, cruel reminder of his helplessness. The cage clung to him like a weight, offering no comfort, just the persistent ache of being locked away from his own desires. His body remained still, tense, as the edges of the cuffs bit into his skin. The hood was coarse and unforgiving, blocking his sight and trapping the warmth of his breath, mingling with the richer smells of vanilla candles and cedarwood that filled the room.
Janet’s heels clicked against the floor as she walked toward the door, her pace slow, deliberate.
“Right on time,” she said, her voice carrying a sweetness he hadn’t heard in years.
The door creaked open, and a man’s voice responded, smooth and self-assured. “I wouldn’t dare be late.” The voice was of a black man, and Ian imagined him larger than himself. His wife was always partial to big black cock.
Ian’s pulse quickened, his heart thudding in his chest as he strained to hear every detail. The man’s voice was deep and rich with confidence, the kind of tone that made everything sound effortless, commanding.
“Come in,” she said, her words curling around the invitation like silk.
The door closed softly, followed by the low murmur of pleasantries exchanged. The man’s cologne drifted into the room—woodsy with hints of leather and spice. It overpowered the faint floral notes of her perfume, a scent the husband once found intoxicating but now felt like a betrayal.
“I hope you’re thirsty,” she said, and he heard the faint pop of a wine bottle being uncorked.
“I’m always thirsty for you,” the man replied, his words dripping with a charm that made the husband’s stomach churn.
She laughed, soft and melodic, the kind of laugh she hadn’t shared with him in years. It was carefree, unrestrained, like a bird taking flight.
The sound of pouring wine followed, the liquid splashing gently into glasses. The husband caught the faint aroma of red wine, rich and fruity, mingling with the other smells that thickened the air.
“Shall we sit?” she asked, her voice lilting with playfulness.
“Lead the way,” the man replied, his tone warm, teasing.
Their footsteps moved closer, the soft swish of her silk dress brushing against her legs. The husband could feel them near him now, the warmth of their presence palpable even through the hood.
“Don’t mind him,” she said, her tone casual, dismissive.
The man chuckled. “I won’t.”
The husband’s heart clenched at those two words, spoken so easily, as if he were an object, a piece of furniture in the room. He tugged lightly at the cuffs, testing them, but they held firm. The cage between his legs pressed painfully against him, a constant, painful reminder of his total submission.
They settled on the sofa nearby, the sound of cushions shifting as they made themselves comfortable. Their conversation started light—talk of travels and art, of wine and indulgences. But soon, the undertones changed.
“You’re more beautiful than I remembered,” the man said.
Her laugh was low, almost a purr. “You flatter me.”
The sound of her glass being set down was followed by the faint rustle of movement. The husband imagined her leaning closer to him, her hand brushing against his arm.
“You’re impossible to resist,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Good,” the man replied, his tone deep and resonant.
The husband’s chest tightened. He tried to focus on other sounds—the crackle of the fire, the ticking of the clock on the mantel—but their closeness was inescapable. The faint wet sound of a kiss reached his ears, followed by a soft, breathy laugh that was unmistakably hers.
He clenched his fists, the metal cuffs biting into his wrists as he shifted in his chair. The movement made the chair creak, a sharp sound that drew her attention.
“Stay still,” she said, her voice calm but commanding.
The man laughed softly. “Does he always behave this well?”
“Only when I make him,” she replied, her tone dominant.
The air grew heavier, the room filled with sounds the husband could only imagine—clothing shifting, bodies moving closer, her whispered encouragements, and his low, rumbling laughter. The musk of their intimacy began to fill the room, mingling with the sweetness of her perfume and the sharpness of his cologne.
After a moment of quiet, the man’s voice cut through the air, low and mocking. “Seems like your husband’s not going to be able to join in. Don’t worry, Man. I’m going to take very good care of your wife.”
The husband flinched, the words hitting him like a slap. The cage felt tighter now, a symbol of everything he couldn’t do, everything he wasn’t allowed to be.
She laughed, the sound rich and full of amusement. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He doesn’t mind. He knows his tiny prick can’t satisfy women.”
The husband felt his face flush, the heat of humiliation burning under the hood. His breath quickened as his mind raced, the constant ache in his body intensifying.
“Shall we move somewhere more comfortable?” she asked after a while, her voice breathy.
“I thought you’d never ask,” the man replied.
The sound of her heels clicking against the floor was followed by his heavier footsteps as they moved down the hallway. The faint creak of a door opening, but not closing, signaled they wanted Ian to hear.
The husband was left alone in the living room, the silence oppressive. He tugged again at the cuffs, his wrists sore, but the binds didn’t budge. The chastity cage pressed relentlessly against him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t do anything but sit and listen to the muffled sounds that waffled down the hallway.
At first, it was quiet—just the faint hum of voices, unintelligible but unmistakably close. Then, he heard laughter, soft and low, followed by a sharper sound—a gasp, perhaps, or a moan. The bed creaked, a rhythmic sound that seemed to grow louder with every passing moment.
Then came the sounds of a sloppy blowjob. Ian imagined an enormous cock sliding in and out of Janet’s mouth. The rhythmic gagging suggested she was deep throating her lover.
Soon the sounds of oral sex were replaced with evidence of penetration. Ian heard his wife gasp and then moan rhythmically.
Her voice carried through faintly, high and breathy, broken by pauses and muffled by the walls. “Oh, yes… just like that…” she whispered. Her voice was louder now, rising in pitch, filled with unrestrained pleasure. “Don’t stop… please, don’t stop…”
The man’s replies were lower, indistinct but filled with satisfaction. The rhythm of the creaking bed quickened, joined by occasional thuds against the wall, punctuated by the rising and falling sounds of their voices. Her moans echoed through the walls, urgent and passionate, each one sharper and more desperate than the last. Her cries of pleasure sliced through the thick air, sending a jolt through the husband’s chest. The sounds, raw and unrelenting, became an overwhelming symphony of intimacy he could do nothing but endure.
Ian’s chest tightened as he sat frozen, unable to block out the intimacy unfolding just a room away.
Janet was the first to climax, screaming “Oh God!”, repeatedly. Her lover came a few minutes later with grunting and slower, more deliberate thrusts evidenced by the sounds of their bodies crashing together.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the noises stopped. Silence fell again, heavy and suffocating.
Their footsteps returned soon after, slow and unhurried.
The room filled with the musk of sex as the two lovers entered the room.
The sound of a coat being lifted and the faint jingle of keys filled the room.
“Until next time,” the man said, his tone laced with satisfaction.
“Goodnight, Malik” she replied, her words soft and lingering. “Malik”, now Ian knew the name of the man who had just fucked his wife.
The husband could hear Janet and Malik kissing and imagined their embrace.
The door opened and closed, and the man’s presence faded, leaving behind only the faint trace of his cologne.
Janet’s heels clicked against the floor as she returned to the husband. She stopped in front of him.
“You were so good tonight,” she said, her fingers brushing against his shoulder.
She leaned closer, and her perfume filled his senses, sweet and familiar.
“Let’s take this off,” she murmured, reaching behind his head to loosen the hood.
The sudden rush of light made him squint as she pulled it away. She was still naked. Karen’s face was calm, radiant, a soft smile playing on her lips as though nothing unusual had happened, but she had marks on her body where Malik had held her tightly, and there was cum oozing from her pussy.
“Let me get those cuffs,” she said, kneeling to unlock them. The metal fell away with a soft clink, leaving faint red marks on his wrists.
She stood and offered her hand, her smile unwavering.
“Come,” she said. “It’s time for bed.” Then, almost like an afterthought, she added, “I need you to clean my pussy.”
He hesitated, his body stiff, his heart heavy. But he took her hand, letting her lead him down the hall. The lingering scent of the other man clung faintly to the air, a shadow that refused to dissipate. Soon he would be eating Malik’s semen, the final affront before sleep.