I never thought of myself as the jealous type. For years, I prided myself on being secure in my relationship with Sophia. Our bond had always been something unbreakable, unshakable, something that felt like it could withstand anything. So, when she suggested opening our marriage, I didn’t hesitate. I thought it was a testament to how strong we were, a chance for us to explore new experiences and grow even closer. A sign of trust.

Sophia proposed it one evening after a glass of wine, her voice soft but her eyes alight with something unfamiliar—curiosity, hunger. “What if we brought someone else into our lives? A woman, maybe,” she said, the words tasting foreign on her lips, yet she said them so assuredly, as though she had already imagined it happening. She explained how she wanted to bring back the excitement, the spark, the energy that had always been there in the beginning. She loved me, but she wanted to feel alive again, wanted to feel something more, something different.

I agreed. What kind of man would I be if I couldn’t give her that? I loved her too much to hold her back. We had always been partners, and I thought—no, I knew—that love was about evolution, about growth. So, without hesitation, I said yes. I thought it would keep our relationship vibrant, full of new possibilities.

And that’s how Isabelle entered our lives.

From the moment she walked through the door, I felt it—an energy, an aura, an overwhelming presence that almost swallowed me whole. It wasn’t just her beauty—though she was, in a word, stunning—but something more intangible, something darker. Her gaze was sharp, calculating. Those eyes—so dark, so intense—pierced through me, like she was looking into the very core of my soul. She was a woman who didn’t just exist in a room. She commanded it, like the universe itself bent to her will. Her every movement radiated power, and I felt small next to her.

Sophia adored her immediately, and I saw in her eyes a spark of admiration that I hadn’t seen in years. Isabelle was everything I wasn’t—bold, unapologetic, self-assured. She became Sophia’s muse, her inspiration, and as the weeks wore on, I began to feel irrelevant. The woman I loved, the woman I had built my life with, no longer needed me in the same way. It wasn’t even subtle—it was as if I was no longer a part of the equation.

The first time we were together, I had no real objections. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could watch them, and it would be thrilling, liberating even. Isabelle took control—no hesitation, no uncertainty. She guided us with a sense of authority, of expertise, like she had done this a thousand times. I watched, helpless but transfixed, as Sophia undressed Isabelle and then herself. Expecting to participate, I stripped off my clothes as well.

Isabella was the first to get in bed, followed quickly by Sophia. They were already making out by the time I joined them. I thought I was still part of it, that I was contributing. I would be the third. But when I joined the women in bed, Isabelle wouldn’t allow me to touch her, and she was the one who touched my wife, so I sat on the edge of the bed and watched.

The scent of Isabelle’s perfume lingered in the air, sweet and intoxicating, a scent that seemed to cling to everything. I was captivated, drowning in the atmosphere of the room—the soft moans as Isabella went down on my wife, the slick sound of skin against skin, the pulsing rhythm of their connection. It felt almost… sacred, the way they moved together, the way their bodies intertwined. And for a time, it was thrilling. It felt new. It felt alive.

But as the weeks passed, something darker began to shift. Isabelle wasn’t just a guest anymore. She began to shape our lives. It started subtly, with the little things—ordering dinner without asking my opinion, choosing the wine with an air of finality, dismissing my presence in the smallest ways. Then, she began speaking over me. Interrupting me. Finishing my sentences. As though I wasn’t even there. And Sophia? She didn’t notice—or if she did, she didn’t care. She seemed to revel in Isabelle’s dominance. She thrived in it.

I became a ghost in my own home. A shadow to the vibrant energy they shared. I would watch, helpless, as Isabelle took over the decision-making, as Sophia fell deeper into her spell.

In the bedroom, it became even more pronounced. The first few times, I told myself it was thrilling, exciting. But soon, it was clear. Isabelle wasn’t just leading us. She was replacing me.

And then, one night, Isabelle turned to me. With that knowing smirk on her lips. “Elliot,” she said, her voice low, almost predatory. “Why don’t you sit this one out?”

I blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Her smile only deepened. She leaned closer, her breath warm against my skin. “Just for tonight. Watch us. You might learn something.”

Sophia’s gaze flickered to mine, a silent apology in her eyes, but something else too—excitement. An eagerness. “Maybe just this once,” she said, her voice soft, laced with quiet thrill. “It could be… fun.”

My chest tightened. I couldn’t speak. My body was frozen, suspended in the moment. I wanted to scream, to protest, but instead, I found myself moving to the chair by the window. Numb. My hands trembling.

I sat there, naked, watching. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with expectation. The sound of their bodies, the creak of the bed, the soft gasps of pleasure filled the space. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look away. The scent of sex, of sweat, of intimacy, clung to everything. Despite feeling left out, I was aroused by what I saw, and I pleasured myself as the women pleasured each other.

The room grew thick with the sound of their bodies—moans, sighs, the rhythm of passion unfolding before me. The air was heavy with expectation, and though I felt abandoned, I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Isabelle must have believed me to be a distraction, for the next evening, she came to me with a cold, gleaming piece of metal in her hand—a chastity cage. Her eyes were sharp, focused, as though this moment had been anticipated for much longer than I could have known. There was a cruel clarity in her gaze as she approached, as if she were about to remove any remaining illusion of choice.

Without a word, she stepped forward and knelt in front of me. Her hands reached for the waistband of my pants, pulling them and my underpants down just. I was exposed to her, vulnerable. She held me with cold precision as she picked up the device. The cold metal gleamed in her hand as she slid it around me, fitting it firmly, securely.

I opened my mouth to protest, but her firm fingers silenced me. The device clicked into place, cold and unyielding, locking me in place. There was no room for argument. The rigid metal encased me, a physical barrier that no longer just restrained me—it controlled me.

It wasn’t just the cock cage that held me now. It was the feeling of helplessness, of powerlessness. A symbol. A reminder. A declaration that I was no longer in charge of my own body, that Isabelle held dominion over it, over everything. It wasn’t just about the restraint—it was about submission. It was about total control.

Sophia, standing beside her, said nothing. Her gaze met mine, distant, almost absent. She seemed… relieved. Almost grateful.

From that moment forward, my role in their lives was clear. I no longer had a say in the decisions. I no longer had a place in their passions. I was nothing more than a servant to their desires, existing only to cater to them, to watch them grow closer. Their connection deepened, their intimacy expanding, while I remained locked in my silent cage.

The next time we were all together, the sensation of the chastity device was unrelenting. I couldn’t escape it. The cold metal pressed against me with every movement, a constant reminder that I was not allowed to engage, not allowed to participate in their world. I was a spectator, and nothing more.

Isabelle smiled as she looked at me, her gaze heavy with amusement. “You’re going to watch us again, Elliot,” she purred, her voice laced with authority.

Sophia didn’t protest. If anything, there was something almost relieved in the way she looked at Isabelle, as though this was what she had been waiting for. The women stripped off their clothes while I remained dressed, but as she climbed into bed, Isabelle turned to me and simply said “Strip.” For a moment I thought she was inviting me to join them, although I had no idea what that role might be while wearing a cock cage. However, once naked, she pointed at a chair in the corner and simply said, “Sit there.” I complied with the command, sitting in the corner, wearing only the chastity device.

As they kissed, as they touched each other, I was frozen, unable to move, unable to act. The device between my legs burned with the desire I couldn’t release. I could only watch, only endure, feeling both humiliated and utterly captivated.

The role I once had in their world was gone. I was nothing but a shadow in the room, tethered to them by the cold, harsh metal.

The two women made love in front of me while my flaccid penis remained caged. After several minutes of 69, Isabelle left the bed, walked to her overnight bag, and removed a strap-on harness.

As she put the harness on, Isabelle taunted me. “I bet you wish you still had a dick, Elliot.” Then she added a dagger, “Your tiny prick wasn’t really of much use before it was caged.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and I nodded numbly. The strap-on seemed to loom over me like an omen, a tool not of pleasure but of power. It was a weapon, a reminder that I was no longer the man I once was.

Sophia sat back on the bed, her face flushed, wild, eager, almost desperate. But there was something different in her eyes now, a distance between us. She wasn’t the woman I knew. She was someone else entirely—a woman molded by Isabelle’s influence, shaped by her control.

Isabelle, though, never took her eyes off me. She was studying me, reading my every reaction, her gaze like a predator watching its prey.

“Look at me, Elliot,” she purred, her voice dripping with authority. “You’re going to sit there. You’re going to watch everything we do. You’re going to see what it means to please a woman.”

The command struck me like a slap. My breath caught in my throat. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. There was no choice now, no escape. Isabelle had already claimed me, and this? This was the final step in my total surrender.

Sophia shifted to her hands and knees before placing her face on a pillow. Her body trembling with anticipation, but it wasn’t for me anymore. I wasn’t the center of her world anymore. Isabelle was. Isabelle had become the focal point of all their desires. And I was nothing but a spectator, a shadow lingering on the edges of their world.

I sat there, paralyzed, my chest tight with a mixture of rage and helplessness. Isabelle was right. I was learning something. Not just about them, but about myself. I had been reduced to nothing more than a passive observer, a slave to their whims.

And when Isabelle finally slid her cock into Sophia’s pussy, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the moans that followed—it was a sound I couldn’t escape, a memory I couldn’t erase. It was a cruel reminder that I had been replaced, that my role had been diminished to nothing.

Isabelle’s eyes never left me as she held firmly to my wife’s hips, penetrating her, owning her. Her gaze seemed to pierce right through me, daring me to look away as she stabbed my wife’s cunt. I couldn’t divert my eyes. I was trapped in this twisted game, my dignity and identity slipping further with each thrust.

I was nothing. Nothing but a ghost in my own life.