I was already kneeling when she pulled back the shower curtain, my cage tight against my svelte shaved body, my nails painted pink to match my cage.
Steam curled around my wife Sasha like a veil, dewy droplets sliding down her thighs, catching in the curves of her hips before tumbling past her knees. She stood above me, casual, wet, perfect. One hand on her hip. The other reaching for a towel she had no intention of using.
She was still damp from the shower, towel loose around her hips, steam curling off her cinnamon-toned Indian skin in lazy waves. Her legs were long, smooth, strong — thighs plush, calves firm, the kind of curves that made strangers stare when she wore heels. Her hair was piled up, dark and wet, dripping at the nape. I could see the glint of her gold belly chain under the towel.
She turned to face me fully, tits swaying slightly, her nipples dark and taut from the air. Her stomach was soft in the sexiest way — not flat, not tight. Just real. Real enough to make men dream about it after one look. The kind of body that didn’t need filters.
“You missed a spot, baby.” she said pointing to her labia. Her voice was soft. Playful. Sharp underneath.
I swallowed. My razor hand shook just slightly as I leaned in to run the blade one more time along the delicate crease of her inner thigh. I could smell her. Not just the citrus shampoo or the steam — her. Musk and something sweeter. Her arousal had been leaking steadily ever since she’d gotten the text that he was on the way to pick her up. My duty was to shave her smooth, from her pussy to her tight little butthole.
“You want him to feel how smooth I am when he goes down on me, don’t you?” she teased.
I nodded.
“Say it.”
“I want him to feel how smooth you are when he– when he goes down on you.”
Her laugh was soft. Pleased.
My cage pulsed. I looked down at her luscious thighs and tried not to picture it: Nico’s head between her thighs, his hands big enough to span her hips, that deep moan he made when he pushed in.
He was the opposite of me. In every way. A true Bull. Tall. Broad. Deep brown skin. Muscles that didn’t quit. He was the kind of man who filled a room even when he wasn’t hard — and he was always hard with his nine inch monster cock. I’d only seen it once, and even caged, I couldn’t look away.
She said he made her sore. Not just the day-of. The day after. And she loved that.
When I finished, she stepped out of the shower without helping me up. I stayed there, kneeling on the bathroom tile as she dried herself slowly, taking her time with her breasts, her ass, even between her legs — dragging the towel between her folds like she wanted me to see the glistening thread of arousal that stretched with it. Teasing me endlessly. She glanced down at me like she’d forgotten I was there. She didn’t want me helping her, that would be too easy. No, she wanted to let me know what I was missing.
“You should go get ready, too,” she said, tossing the towel at me. “I picked out what you’re wearing. It’s on the bed. You promised him you’d wear things like that so he feels like the real man of the house.”
Of course she had.
She laid it out on our bed like a joke she already knew the punchline to: sheer black thigh-highs, a baby-pink satin garter, and white high heels that they had custom made for me the week she first locked my cock. I’d protested at first. Obviously. Even when a part of me wanted and craved this. She said she liked how it looked when I bent over.
My cage clicked once more before I slid the panties on. Tighter now. Always tighter before a date night. She said it made me more focused. I didn’t need to be focused on my pleasure anyway.
When I came back into the bedroom, she was in front of the mirror, curling her hair.
“Do I look fuckable?” she asked, glancing at me through the mirror.
I nodded, words sticking to the roof of my mouth. Of course she did. When did she not?
“Use your words, princess.”
“You look… perfect.”
“You think he’ll like this dress?” she said, pointing to the dress hanging near the mirror. “I think he will. It’s tight in the right places, short in the wrong ones.”
I sat on the edge of the bed while she did her hair and decided what she wanted me to do for her make up. Every few minutes she’d ask my opinion, while holding a different tube. “Too much?” or “Should I go for the nude lip?” and each time I answered, she ignored me. She always knew what she wanted. And I fucking loved that.
When she was finally satisfied, she turned to face me fully.
“You’ll help me with my panties,” she said. Not a question.
She stepped into a pair of sheer black lace — barely more than a wisp of thread. I pulled them up carefully, reverently, like I was dressing a queen. When the waistband snapped into place against her hips, she leaned in close, her mouth brushing my ear.
“He likes these. He likes them wet. I should oblige him.” she said with a wink.
I whimpered before I could stop myself.
She escort bursa smirked. “Of course, I’ll probably take them off before dinner.”
I didn’t know if she meant for his benefit or for mine. Maybe both.
“Come here baby. Crawl to me.”
I crawled to her, getting on all fours, feeling my smooth legs rub against each other while I exhibited my servitude towards her.
She sat at the vanity in nothing but confidence, her panties and clean skin, her legs crossed like a queen. She held out a tube of gloss.
“You know what to do.”
I applied it to her mouth carefully — dabbing, shaping, tracing the little bow of her upper lip with delicate precision. Then came the eyeliner. The bronzer. The subtle shimmer she wore at the corners of her eyes when she wanted to look like she wasn’t wearing anything at all. I don’t know what made me pang more, the fact that I had to do this for her only for her to ruin it with his cock slobber and her orgasms or the fact that I knew how to do this in the first place.
“Tonight’s final color?” I asked softly.
She pointed at the dress hanging from the edge of the mirror.
“Something to match.”
I nodded and fetched the palette.
When her face was done, she examined herself, turning slightly side to side.
“Not bad,” she said. “You’re getting better.”
“Thank you.”
She looked down at me.
“Your turn.”
I blinked. “My–?”
She nodded to the bed.
“Get dressed.”
I stood, shaky. My skin was already smooth — I’d showered and shaved earlier, just like she said. Everything was laid out on the bed like I had already examined.
My body was narrow. Flat. Shaved. Caged. She said once that I looked like a “retired ballerina” when I wore her clothes. I had no ass. Barely any thighs. And yet, in her panties, with my little cock locked in its silver home, I looked… exactly how she wanted me to. It’s not like I looked like a man, standing side by side with her bull made it very obvious. I was no man.
I stepped into the panties. They clung to my skin — smooth and thin — pressing the cage down awkwardly. I pulled the stockings up my legs next. I had to be careful — my nails weren’t painted, but they were shaped just enough to snag if I rushed. I dressed silently, pulling the stockings up my legs with careful fingers, trying not to snag. The panties were already damp from anticipation — tight, feminine, soft against my skin. I slipped the slip over my head last. It smelled faintly like her — fabric softener and perfume and ownership.
She watched me from the chair, legs crossed, smirking.
“You look almost cute tonight.”
I flushed. “Thank you.”
“Almost.”
She stood and walked to the mirror. I stayed still, barely breathing. She pulled out the dress.
It was deep black silk, low cut, high slit — the one that clung to her hips and made people stare when she walked into a room. I helped her step into it, holding the hem off the floor, zipping it slow.
“You want to touch me, don’t you?”
I nodded.
She turned to face me.
“You’re not allowed. But you can help with the rest.” she said as she gave her nipple a punch and her mouth turned into an o-shape teasing and tantalizing me.
I applied her perfume behind her ears. Clasped her necklace. Buckled the ankle straps on her heels, kneeling at her feet while she stood over me — taller than ever, towering.
When I looked up, she was holding something in her hand. A silver key.
“Guest room’s ready. Or as I like to call it the moan room! ” she said. “Lights. Audio. The hole’s there too. I adjusted it — you’ll see plenty of Nico’s ass. I know you wish you could see mine as I bounce on his cock, but we both know you are pretty wet for his body too” she said as she guided me outside and into the guestroom.
We lived in a modest two bedroom house in suburban Michigan. The walls however, were usually thin. When we first started our cuckolding journey, that’s how we discovered the pleasure of the thin walls. I could hear most things comfortably.
But tonight? She had seemed to have gone overboard.
My heart dropped. I didn’t know what I expected when she opened the guest room door and led me in. It wasn’t this.
The lights were already dimmed — soft, dusky red from the LED strips she’d run along the crown molding, giving it a dingy vibe, like a off kilter strip club.
The single bed was freshly made, but the sheets weren’t white. They were black satin. Silk against the eye. Cold against the skin.
Sasha stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, smiling.
“Well?” she said. “What do you think?”
I stepped inside, cautious. The scent hit me first: her perfume, faint and warm. The same one she wore on her collarbones when she wanted Nico to press his mouth there. The room didn’t smell like comfort. It smelled like sex I wasn’t invited to.
“Close the door,” she said gently. I did. The lights became dimmer, dingier. She walked in behind me and began görükle escort the tour.
“Audio’s clean now,” she said, gesturing to the wall-mounted speaker in the corner. “No more muffled moaning like last time. This one’s patched directly into the baby monitor I keep under the bed.” Her experience as an MIT grad helped I guess. Just not what I’d ever expect a MIT grad to ever do.
My cheeks flushed. She smiled.
“I tested it. Played back a few of my old sessions. Nico said it made him hard just listening to me squeal.”
I swallowed hard.
“You’ll get every moan, baby. Every slap. Every creak of the headboard. Every inch. All crystal clear. There won’t be any audio interruptions. I promise. I have to use that degree to good use anyway right?”
She leaned in close. “But not every view. Oh no no. That, may only be for him.”
She crossed the room and crouched next to the wall by the headboard. It looked like normal drywall until she tapped on a small, silver-rimmed opening — shaped like a keyhole, set low, just above floor level.
“You get a peek,” she said. “But it’s angled.”
She patted it lovingly, like she was showing off a pet. “So when he’s behind me, you’ll get to see his hips. When I’m on my back, you might catch a thigh. Or a heel.” She winked. “But never my face.”
The tray was already out — a little rolling cart with shelves. Felt like a hospital tray, surgical, necessary and foreign.
“This is the pleasure cart! All set up for you!”
Top shelf: lubes. Bottles lined up, some familiar, some new. Warming. Tingling. Silicone-based. Middle shelf: the dildos.
She gestured like a hostess at a tasting table.
“Start small,” she said. “Work up.”
Each toy had a label beneath it. Not a brand. Not a size. But things like:
“What you deserve”
“Still not enough”
“Almost Nico”
“Earn this”
“He didn’t even need lube”
At the bottom shelf was the box. Still unopened. Still sealed in plastic.
“You’ll know when to use that one,” she said simply. “That’s the goal.”
Then she turned and pointed to the ceiling. I hadn’t looked up yet. My jaw dropped and my knees nearly buckled.
The ceiling wasn’t just a ceiling anymore. It was a mural. Four massive, blown-up photographs of Sasha — full-body nudes. Artistic, glossy, undeniably arousing.
But each one had been censored. Digitally, cruelly.
Over her breasts: a stamp that read “PROPERTY OF NICO” in pink cursive.
Across her pussy: a harsh white bar with bold black text: “PUSSYFREE ZONE”
Another one had her back to the camera, hands spreading her asscheeks, glistening — but across it was the caption: “NOT FOR SISSIES”
I stared, paralyzed.
“I had those printed last week,” she said sweetly. “Sent them to Nico first for approval.”
She looked up with me. “He said it might make you feel like you were included.”
Her smile twisted slightly. The walls were worse. Each one had a single giant photo.
One of her spreading her lips with her fingers, face just out of frame. Across it: “ACCESS DENIED”
Another: her holding Nico’s cock at the base, tip resting against her tongue. The censor bar read: “DON’T GET EXCITED — SHE DOESN’T WANT YOU”
And the last: a blurry shot of her post-orgasm, mascara smudged, sweat on her chest. Across her body: “SHE’S SORE. YOU’RE STILL LOCKED.”
I couldn’t speak.
My cage was already dripping. My thighs were trembling.
“Jamie,” she said, walking up behind me. “This is your place now.”
She reached down and adjusted the panties I was wearing, and removed them, letting them fall to the floor. She took my hands and let me walk out of them.
“You’re not here to watch,” she whispered. “You’re here to feel.”
Her hand slipped between my legs and pressed gently against the cage. Just once. Just enough. I could have cum right there.
I gasped.
“You’ll cum in this room. The moan room.”
Her mouth was close to my ear.
“But not from pleasure. You’ll cum from need. From whimpering. From listening to me moan another man’s name. From crying into my ruined panties while you fuck yourself with a rubber cock.”
She stepped back. “This isn’t a punishment, baby.” She smiled.”It’s your reward.” She stepped closer. Lifted the hem of her dress. And then — God — she slid her fingers into her thong, tugged it down her thighs. They were soaked. Still warm. Still sticky. She let them fall to the floor between us.
I stared.
Then she leaned down, picked them up, and placed them in my hands. “You’ll wear these,” she said. “I’m going without.”
I couldn’t breathe.
She leaned in and whispered, “Enjoy the wetness. That’s the closest you’ll get to my pussy tonight. Or ever, you pussyfree bitch!”
I slid them up my thighs as she watched. She reached down and adjusted them slightly, tugging the fabric so it pressed between my cheeks. The scent was dizzying. She was still wet. Still open. And she was going to him like that.
She stepped behind me and closed the door.
“Oh I probably forgot the best part! The moan room locks from the outside! I’ll be locking you in now and if I’m not too cock drunk I’ll remember to unlock the room in the morning. I’ll slide a key or something. Don’t make a mess,” she said softly before kissing my cheek.
Then: click. The door locked from the outside. She was gone.
At first, there was nothing.
No sound. No light. Just the soft hum of the wall speaker and the faint buzz of the red LED above the door, still dark.
I stood in the middle of the guest room, trying not to breathe too loudly.
The air smelled like fresh linen and latex. The bed had been made tightly — corner-tucked like a hotel. There were two pillows, one soft, one firm, stacked on top of each other. Beside the bed sat the tray.
She’d really gone all-out.
There were bottles of lube lined up like a tasting flight. No vibrators. Of course not. She’d told me why once.
“Vibrators are for pleasure. You don’t get that. You get effort.”
I sat down on the bed and crossed my legs.
The panties she made me wear were still damp. Not soaked anymore — not fresh. Now just tacky and warm, her scent clinging like perfume. They rode high up my thighs and cheeks and shifted every time I moved.
I adjusted them gently, careful not to leak. She hated when I leaked.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. I couldn’t stop pacing. My feet were silent on the carpet. I could barely breathe.
I tried to think about anything else — don’t imagine her on her knees, don’t imagine his cock in her mouth, don’t imagine her taking her time because she likes to make you suffer.
But I couldn’t stop it. I imagined everything.
Her whispering in his ear on the porch. Her hitching her dress up before he even shuts the door. Him pushing her up against the wall, grabbing her ass, sliding inside her like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.
I checked the red light on the speaker again.
Still nothing.
The drawer of toys sat open from earlier. I hadn’t dared touch it yet. Too soon. She hadn’t given me enough yet to deserve relief. That’s what she wanted. For me to stew. To sweat.
I laid down on the bed, the soft sheets cool beneath me, and waited.
I waited. And waited. And after what felt like hours?
Click.
A quiet electronic sound. So soft, it could have been imagined — if not for the sudden glow above.
The red light. It turned on. My breath caught.
I scrambled off the bed and crawled to the far wall. Pressed my ear to the drywall, listened.
Nothing — not yet.
And then it came. Crisp. Direct. Clearer than I ever thought possible.
Her voice.
“I can hear him in there,” she whispered. “He’s listening.”
Her voice came louder now, more distinct.
“He shaved me this morning. It got him so worked up. Poor thing was trembling.”
A low chuckle. “Is he wearing the panties?”
“He is.”
“Fucking freak.”
“I know. I love it.”
A laugh, breathy and high. “Mmm. I was wondering when you’d strip”
A low grunt. His voice. “Couldn’t wait.”
Something rustled — maybe her dress. The sound of her pressing back against the bed.
“You’re already hard,” she teased.
“You’re already wet.”
She gasped, low and sharp. “I told you I’d be ready.”
I scrambled to the peephole and pressed my eye to it, desperate. The view was warped, tiny, frustratingly limited — just enough to catch motion. A flash of skin. The curve of a thigh. And then:
His back. His thick, muscular back. Broad and flexing. His broad ass. He stood right in front of her, blocking my view.
She wasn’t kidding. She’d placed the hole exactly there. On purpose.
From my point of view it felt like just a shadow, a shape, a movement. The bed. Then her voice:
“Yes… right there…”
Nico grunted. Flesh met flesh. I pushed my face to the hole any closer and my eye might have popped off it’s socket.
There — movement again. A ripple. Nico’s back.
He was definitely fucking her from behind. All I could see was the curve of his lower back, the taut muscle of his ass, and her legs, limp heels that moved with every thrust of his.
Her thighs were spread wide. Her heels were still on. He gripped her waist like it was his. His ass moved rhythmically.
She was moaning his name. His name. Not mine.
“Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” she said as she continued to move with ever thrust. Every thrust of his felt like the whole room, or even the whole house moved.
I whimpered, grinding my thighs together, the cage aching, wishing that I would get any or some relief if I pushed my legs together and my thighs squeezed the berries I used to call balls.
Suddenly the scene changed from the peephole. He still stayed there, in the same position but he must’ve pushed inside her right then, because she screamed. Not a porn moan. Not performative. It was real. It was raw. Her breath caught, then she exhaled a broken, sobbing moan — the kind that only comes from being truly filled.
I slid back from the peephole, panting, dizzy.
I needed something. I needed to move. I needed to feel.