It began the way so many of his wife’s twisted games do, with her voice soft and playful, yet carrying that unmistakable edge that always sent shivers down my spine. Nonetheless, he never really knows what to expect.
“Sit, my pet,” she said, guiding me to the corner of our bedroom. I obeyed, as I always do, lowering myself to the floor. I could hear the faint rustle of her preparations—the clink of metal, the soft slide of fabric—though I couldn’t see what she was doing.
When she returned, her fingertips brushed my temple as she held something in front of me. “Lift your chin,” she whispered, her tone firm.
I complied without hesitation, and that’s when I felt it: the supple, cool leather being drawn down over my head. The smell of it was intoxicating, rich and earthy, mixed with a faint trace of her perfume. The hood hugged my face snugly as she adjusted it, her hands moving with precision. I could feel the laces at the back tightening, pulling the hood flush against my skin. Then came the click of a small lock at the nape of my neck. My pulse thudded in my ears.
I was completely blind.
“You look magnificent like this,” she purred, her fingers tracing the edges of the hood. “Your experience this evening will be unlike any other.” The words lingered in the air, heavy with implication.
Time became slippery after that. I knelt there, immersed in darkness, as she moved about the house. I could hear the faint sound of glasses being arranged, bottles clinking, and the occasional hum of her voice. Every now and then, she would return to me, brushing her fingers over my shoulder or trailing her nails down my arm. Each touch was electric, heightened by my inability to anticipate it.
I’m sitting in the stillness of my bedroom, when I hear the soft rustle of clothing, a murmur of voices rising with excitement. The sound of shoes on the polished floor is unmistakable, their quick shuffle telling me people are moving with purpose. I catch the faint clink of glasses and the hum of music creeping in from another room. Then, the laughter—bright and easy—floats through the air, like an invisible invitation. I don’t need to see a thing to know what’s happening. The energy of a party pulses just outside my door, and I can feel it pulling me in.
Then came the footsteps. Lighter than hers, hesitant yet purposeful. A hand gripped my elbow—soft, unmistakably feminine—lifting me to my feet. My heart raced as I was guided down the hall. The hand didn’t speak, but its grip was insistent, leading me to what I assumed was the living room. The air felt warmer, filled with an unfamiliar energy, and the low hum of voices reached my ears.
I was stopped abruptly, positioned in the center of the room. Whoever had led me there stepped away, leaving me standing, blind and vulnerable. The room grew quiet, a pregnant silence hanging in the air. Then, a single pair of hands descended on me, and I knew immediately they belonged to a man. They were enormous, calloused yet deliberate, and they gripped me with an authority that made my breath catch.
He started with my shirt, his hands pulling it apart with no care for buttons or seams. The sound of ripping fabric was loud in my ears, a visceral reminder of my helplessness. Next, he worked on my pants, his strength apparent as he yanked them down in one swift motion, the waistband digging into my hips briefly before giving way. My underwear followed just as quickly, and I was left exposed.
The man’s touch was commanding, almost clinical, as he positioned me. His hands gripped my shoulders, turning me this way and that, as though inspecting me for flaws. One massive hand slid down my back and over my buttocks, the sheer size of it startling. He squeezed firmly, the pressure encompassing almost an entire cheek, his strength making me feel even smaller by comparison. His movements were efficient, unhesitating, and I realized he wasn’t just participating—he was performing.
From the sounds and scents around me, I began to discern two distinct groups in the room: the watchers and the toucher. The watchers were unmistakably women. Their voices were high, amused, and filled with a kind of satisfied detachment as they observed the scene unfolding. They moved around me, their presence marked by the faint wafts of perfume—citrus, floral, and powdery. Their laughter and murmurs carried a sense of indulgent curiosity, as though I were a rare artifact being unveiled for their pleasure.
The realization hit me in waves. The faint scent of his cologne—an earthy, smoky spice—combined with the deep timbre of his occasional murmurs suggested a powerful presence. His skin, warmer than mine, carried a subtle difference that made me imagine he was Black. It wasn’t a certainty, but rather an impression, pieced together from the tactile and olfactory clues he left behind.
His voice, when it came, was low and rich, laced with dominance. He didn’t speak to me directly, but I could hear him exchange a few words with someone else in the room—a woman, her laughter light and teasing. The interplay between them added another layer to my humiliation. I was not just an object of scrutiny; I was a part of their entertainment.
Every shift of my body, each turn, felt mechanical, like I was a part of a machine that needed to be adjusted and re-aligned. There was no softness in the way he moved me. His grip was steady and sure, but there was no tenderness in the pressure. It was deliberate, almost like he was measuring, assessing, making sure I fit into whatever mold he envisioned. I had no choice but to comply. I couldn’t resist, not even if I wanted to. It wasn’t that I felt afraid—more that I felt irrelevant, like I was just a body for him to manipulate, to test against his own needs.
His hands were everywhere, roaming with a kind of urgency that made me feel like an object being appraised rather than a person being touched. I could feel the muscle in his forearms flex as he gripped me, moved me, placed me exactly where he wanted me. His fingers dug into my flesh, pinning me in place, and I wondered if he even cared if I was comfortable. I was a rag doll in his hands, pliable and unresisting, every part of me simply another element for him to mold.
Then, without warning, he guided me into a new position. My legs trembled as they were lifted, and I was brought down onto his hands and knees. The roughness of the floor pressed into my chest as he put one of his massive hands between my shoulder blades and pressed me down. My face met the cool surface, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe properly—the weight of my own body pressing down, held in place by his firm hands. He didn’t ask me to get there. He didn’t wait for me to find my balance. It was as though he knew exactly where I should be, and that was enough. His large, commanding hands pushed my chest lower to the floor, and there I was—prone, vulnerable, and entirely at his mercy.
Then, without warning, his hands gripped my ass, spreading my cheeks apart. I didn’t have to see it to know what was coming. The realization flooded me, and a deep humiliation twisted inside me. I had never been blind before strangers, never exposed in front of them, but this—this was something different. I had never been made to feel so utterly disposable.
I had never been blind before strangers, never naked in front of them, but this wasn’t what my wife meant when she said I’d have an experience unlike any other. I had never had sex with a man before. This was what she meant.
I hear him spit and feel his spittle dribble down the crack of my ass before I feel his finger press against my anus. As he forces is finger inside me, I think his finger is larger than my own erection. I begin to tremble, in part out of humiliation, but mostly out of fear of the size of his cock. I tried to pull away, but he held me firmly, his grip unyielding, as he continued his exploration. My body was no longer my own. It was a tool for their pleasure, a toy to be molded and used.
The watchers’ voices rose in approval, their laughter sharp and tinged with amusement. I was no longer a person in their eyes. I was an object, a thing to be appraised, used, discarded.
The man continued to stretch my ass, forcing a second finger into my rectum, which was already burning. The only sounds are him spitting to lubricate his fingers and the women on the background laughing and cheering him on.
Suddenly, he was inside me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. He wasn’t gentile. He simply pulled his fingers out of me and unceremoniously rammed his cock in the hole. There was no negotiation, no connection—only him, using me for his pleasure, moving me the way he wanted.
I wanted to scream, and maybe I did.
The minutes seemed like hours has he used my ass, thrusting with such force that my face slid across the floor. He wasn’t pumping his hips, he was moving my whole body to stroke his cock.
My mind raced with raw emotion. At the core, there was a deep, gut-wrenching humiliation, as if my entire existence had been reduced to nothing more than a sex doll. I was nothing but an object, and manipulated as they saw fit. But worse, I had never been made to feel so utterly disposable.
I lost track of time. I no longer heard the watchers. There was nothing but the slapping noise and grunts behind me. The hood amplified the sound of his sex.
After an eternity, the man reaches climax. I can feel his semen being pumped into my ass. I can feel his giant cock become more flaccid. Finally, he pulls out and I can feel the semen run down my legs.
Only then did my senses return.
The women’s laughter was deafening, their voices mingling with deep chuckle from him. Time became meaningless as I knelt there, blind and vulnerable, the center of their attention. Each laugh, each word spoken around me was a reminder of my place in this twisted tableau.
Eventually, the voices began to fade, the energy in the room shifting as the gathering wound down. I remained motionless, waiting, until I felt her hands again. Her touch was unmistakable—light yet grounding, a stark contrast to his dominating presence. She unlocked the hood and lifted it away, the sudden flood of light making me blink rapidly as my eyes adjusted.
My wife stood before me, her smile equal parts pride and satisfaction.
“You were extraordinary tonight,” she said, her voice commanding. “They’ll remember this… and so will you.”
I nodded, still speechless, knowing she was right. Tonight had stripped me bare in more ways than one, and the memory of it would linger long after the last guest had gone.