Chapter 1
My wife found the stories I wrote on Literotica. That's the only logical conclusion I can draw from the situation I am currently in.
Yeah, the picture she just sent me confirms it. The picture she just texted me is her in a latex catsuit with a harness attached to her waist. In that harness is a big, thick black dildo, probably 8 or 9 inches long; definitely longer and thicker than my cock.
The picture is a selfie, taken at arm's length. Her face isn't in the picture, but her big 42 double-D tits are. The zipper on the front is barely holding her huge tits in. The latex is super tight around her boobs and her hips, especially on her big fat ass and thick thighs. She could probably stand to lose a little weight. I could see her belly through the tight latex. In the bottom of the picture, I could see the top of the shiny black high-heel boots I got her recently.
I was staring at the picture, getting super excited and super scared too, when I got another text. It said, "I will be home in 90 minutes. I want you ready when I get there. Follow the instructions I left on the bed. Don't argue or disappoint me or it will be worse for you."
I was almost home from work when I got the initial text. I read it after I had parked in the driveway. I rushed into the house and into our bedroom. There was a brown paper shopping bag sitting on the bed. Attached to the bag with a clothespin was a note. It said, "Don't waste time; follow my instructions. Use the enema kit in the bag, clean yourself out well, then shower. Use the lube in the bag and work the butt plug into your ass. Put on the outfit in the bag. After putting towels down on the bed, be waiting on your hands and knees for me."
I opened the bag and found an enema bulb with an attached nozzle. I found a big tube of KY lubricant. I pulled out a big silicone butt plug. It was going to be difficult to push that into my asshole. The outfit was a latex hood with holes for my eyes and mouth. The last thing in the bag was crotchless latex panties.
The clock on the bedside table felt like a ticking countdown. I hurried into the bathroom, my hands shaking as I prepped the enema bulb. The cool water was a sharp reality check, but after filling my ass and emptying it into the toilet several times, I was cleaned out and stepped into the shower.
The fear was building as I thought about the stories I've written. Most of them involve latex and pegging and intense femdom scenes, with multiple mistresses fucking their slaves with huge strap-ons and fisting them. Some of the stories involve the main character being pegged by his stepdaughter's friend, and ultimately his stepdaughter and then his wife. I hope she doesn't think I've done any of these things.
I've fingered my ass occasionally in the shower with conditioner as lube while jerking off. I'm boring. I don't do any of the things I've written about. I read stories on Literotica for years. A few months ago I started writing some stories.
Anyway, I scrubbed my skin until it was spotless. I started daydreaming, thinking of the image of her in that catsuit--the way the latex gripped her curves and the sheer weight of the harness she was wearing for me. I almost started jerking my hard cock when I realized I had to hurry up and get ready.
After drying off, I reached for the large tube of KY. I squirted some of the lube on my finger, then pressed it into my ass. After getting more lube on my finger, I pushed it in again, then started fingering my ass. After a couple minutes I pulled it out, then using more lube and another finger, I continued. I pushed the end of the tube into my ass. After squirting some more of the thick lubricant into my ass, I continued stretching my ass, with three fingers now. I had to be ready for the big plug after that.
The butt plug was intimidatingly thick; the tapered silicone was cold against my palm. I applied a liberal amount of lube and began the slow, intense process of filling my ass with the big plug. It was stretching the hell out of my ass, making me moan loudly. By the time it was seated, I felt full and exposed, the weight of it a constant reminder of who was in charge tonight.
I pulled on the crotchless latex panties, the material snapping against my skin. My hard dick was sticking out the hole in the front. Reaching back, I felt that the plug in my ass was accessible through the hole too. I slid the hood over my head, lining up the holes in the hood with my eyes and mouth. It felt really tight on my face; now I really felt like I was in one of the stories that I wrote.
I laid the towels down as instructed and climbed onto the bed. Settling onto my hands and knees, I stared at the door, every nerve ending on fire. I had written about this power dynamic a bunch of times, but as I heard the sound of a car pulled into the driveway, I realized that being the character in her story was far more intense than being the author of mine.
The sound of the garage door rumbling shut echoed through the floorboards, vibrating right up through my knees. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that competed with the muffled sound of my own heavy breathing inside the latex hood.
The smell of the rubber was intoxicating--chemical and sharp--narrowing my entire world down to the small circles of vision provided by the eye holes.
I heard the heavy thud of the kitchen door closing. Then, the rhythmic click-clack of her high-heeled boots on the hardwood floor. Each step was deliberate, a slow march toward the bedroom that made the plug in my ass feel twice as large. I shifted my weight, trying to stay perfectly still as she instructed, but the slickness of the lube and the tension in my muscles made me tremble.
The bedroom door pushed open.
She didn't say a word at first. I couldn't see her face from my position, but I saw the shiny black reflection of her boots as she walked around the perimeter of the bed. The latex of her catsuit let out a loud, rhythmic creak-skritch with every movement. She stopped directly in front of my head. I was staring at her shins, the black latex gleaming under the bedside lamp.
"Look at me," she commanded. Her voice was lower than usual, carrying a cold, sharp authority that made my stomach flip.
I strained my neck upward. The sight was overwhelming. Up close, she looked like a goddess I had written about, but this one was real.
The catsuit was stretched to its absolute limit across her heavy breasts, the zipper pulled down just enough to tease the deep cleavage. But it was the harness that held my gaze--the thick black straps dug into her hips, framing the massive, vein-textured dildo that protruded from her crotch. It looked even more formidable in person than it had in the photo.
She reached down, the tight latex gloves she was wearing gripping my chin firmly. She forced me to look at her face. She was wearing a latex hood just like the one I was wearing. There was no anger in her eyes--only a fierce, predatory hunger.
"I read every single word," she whispered, her thumb tracing the edge of the mouth hole in my mask. "I had no idea you were such a talented writer. Or that you had such... specific cravings."
I started to say that they were only stories, but she put her index finger to her lips, "Ssssshhhhhh."
She let go of my chin and walked behind me. I felt the bed creak as she sank one knee into the mattress right between my feet. The tip of that cold, heavy silicone dildo brushed against the back of my thigh, sending a jolt of electricity through my spine.
"You've spent so much time imagining what it's like to be used," she said, her voice drifting over my shoulder as I felt her hands grip my hips, her fingernails digging into the latex of my panties. "Tonight, we're going to find out if the reality lives up to your stories."
I heard the sound of a fresh bottle of lube being flipped open. The wet, squelching sound of her coating the dildo was the only warning I got before I felt the broad, blunt head of it press firmly against the base of the plug already inside me.
The pressure was immense. As she pressed the head of the dildo against the base of the plug, I felt the air leave my lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp. The plug, already substantial, was being forced deeper into me by the sheer force of her advance.
"Don't tense up," she murmured, her voice vibrating against the back of my neck. "You wrote about this, remember? The way the protagonist's breath hitches when he realizes there's no going back. You described it as a 'delicious terror.' Is it delicious, or just terrifying?"
She didn't wait for an answer. With a slow, relentless shove, she used the dildo to drive the plug further in, then hooked her fingers into the waistband of my latex panties and pulled my hips back toward her. The transition was a blur of slick friction. I felt the plug slide out as the much larger, textured head of her strap-on took its place at my entrance.
The stretch was unlike anything I had ever felt. It wasn't the clinical, careful stretching I had done with my fingers in the shower; this was a heavy, uncompromising invasion. The thick, vein-textured silicone pushed past my resistance, inch by agonizing inch. I let out a low, guttural moan that was muffled by the latex hood, my forehead pressing into the towels on the bed as my arms began to tremble.
"Look at you," she taunted, her hands moving from my hips to my lower back, pushing me down while her pelvis ground forward. "Shaking like a leaf. Is the writer finding out that words are easier to write than actually doing the work?"
She began a slow, rhythmic grind. The weight of her--heightened by the stiffness of her own catsuit--pressed against my backside. Every time she pushed forward, I could hear the creak-pop of the latex layers rubbing together. The sensation was overwhelming; I was caught between the cold, suffocating tightness of the mask on my face and the searing, stretching heat in my core.
I felt her reach around, her gloved hand finding my hard cock. She didn't stroke it with kindness; she gripped it firmly, pinning it against my belly as she delivered a deep, forceful thrust that bottomed out against my prostate. My vision swam behind the eye holes of the hood.
"I think," she whispered, leaning down so her breath hot-housed inside the ear-opening of my mask, "that we're going to go through your 'greatest hits' tonight. And since you wrote so much about your stepdaughter's friend, maybe I should call someone over to help me hold you down."
The threat--or promise--sent a new wave of adrenaline through me. I didn't know if she was joking, but in this room, under these lights, the woman I thought I knew had been replaced by the Mistress I had spent months dreaming onto a digital page.
I felt the blood drain from my face at the mention of my "greatest hits." The stories were a private outlet, a place where I let my most taboo thoughts run wild because I never thought they'd leave the glowing screen of my laptop. Now, those words were being weaponized against me, turned into a script that I was forced to perform.
"Please," I managed to choke out, the word vibrating against the latex of my mask. "I... I just wrote those. I don't--"
"You don't what?" she interrupted, her voice dropping into a husky, dangerous register. She withdrew the dildo nearly all the way, letting the air rush back into my overstretched core, only to slam it home again with a force that made the bed frame groan. "You don't want to see your fantasies come to life? You don't want to be the helpless little toy you've spent hundreds of pages describing?"
She pulled the dildo out, and as I was thinking about how empty my asshole felt, she quickly flipped me onto my back.
She reached over to the bedside table. I heard the drawer slide open--the drawer where we usually kept nothing more scandalous than a spare charging cable and some earplugs.
I heard the metallic clink of something heavy. A moment later, I felt the cold bite of steel around my right wrist. Before I could process the shock, she had my arm pulled taut, running the other end of the handcuffs through the heavy wooden slat of the headboard and securing it around my other wrist.
"You're always so in control of the narrative," she whispered, moving to secure my left wrist. "But authors don't get to participate. Tonight, you're just the protagonist. And the protagonist doesn't have a say in the plot."
She picked my legs up, pushing my knees towards my chest. Then she pushed the thick strap-on back into my asshole. I moaned loudly as the big rubber balls on her dildo smacked against my ass.
The air in the room felt thick, heavy with the scent of latex and the smell of the lubricant. Being on your back changed everything. With my wrists shackled to the headboard, I was completely exposed and very scared. From this angle, the sight of her was even more imposing; the overhead light caught every glint of her shiny black catsuit, making her look like a living shadow looming over me.
The impact of the dildo's base against my ass sent a dull, heavy thud through my entire body. Every time she thrust, the harness creaked under the strain, and I felt the undeniable power of her hips. She wasn't just following my stories; she was mastering them, reclaiming the space I had built in my head and making it her own.
"You like the detail, don't you?" she asked, her voice slightly muffled by her own latex hood, though her eyes remained locked on yours through the cutouts. "In your stories, you always describe the way the 'victim' loses his breath. The way he can't even form a coherent thought because the sensation is too much."
She slowed the pace, pulling out until the tip was barely inside my ass, then holding it there. The suspense was agonizing. My body, primed by the fear and the intense stimulation, was practically begging for the pressure to return.
"Tell me," she whispered, leaning down until the smooth, cold surface of her mask pressed against mine. "Is the reality better than the stories? Or do I need to be even more... creative?"
She didn't wait for my answer. She drove forward with a relentless, deep rhythm that left me gasping for air, and she started laughing. She pulled back slightly, the harness creaking as she created space between our bodies, though the dildo was still buried in my ass.
"I noticed a recurring theme in your latest stories," she said, her voice smooth and clinical. "You've spent a lot of time describing the needle, the glint of surgical steel, and the way your characters gasp when the metal claims their skin as they get pierced."
She leaned in closer; the scent of the latex was intoxicating. "So, tell me, Author. Was that just more 'fiction' to fill the page? Or were you trying to tell me something?"
"It was just a story..." I started saying before she interrupted me.
"A lot of your stories have women with pierced nipples or slaves getting their nipples pierced... or their cocks. I liked the story where the woman with the pierced nipples had the male slave pierced with a big ring through the head of his cock."
She smiled at me as she pulled the zipper on her latex catsuit down to her belly. She pulled it open, and her huge tits popped out. She had gotten her nipples pierced! There were thick silver rings piercing both her hard nipples. "Your story inspired me. It also hurt like a bitch," she said with a laugh. "I guess that means it's your turn."
The sight of her nipples, swollen and adorned with gleaming silver hoops, I later found they were thick 10-gauge stainless steel rings, felt like a physical blow. The reality of the pain she had endured--the actual, literal blood and steel--shredded the last of my "it's just fiction" defense. This wasn't a roleplay anymore; she had physically altered her body to match what I had written.
"A story this good deserves a supporting cast," she whispered. Raising her voice, she called out toward the open bedroom door, "You can come in now, honey!"
The rhythmic clack-clack of high heels echoed from the hallway, and a young woman stepped into the room. She was a striking goth girl with pale skin and long jet-black hair, dressed in nothing but dangerously tight latex booty shorts and towering black stilettos. She was wearing a bunch of dark makeup, like the goth girls in my stories. She had a few tattoos, but not as many as the girls in my stories did.
She was completely topless; her heavy breasts, with big rings in her nipples as well, swayed with every confident stride. She walked over close to the side of the bed, her dark eyes scanning my restrained, masked body with a look of mischievous hunger.
My wife leaned down, her mask close to mine as she whispered, "I want you to meet someone special. This is Victoria. She's the professional who pierced my nipples this morning, and she's here to make sure your experience is just as... authentic."
Victoria said, "It's a pleasure to finally meet the man behind the stories. Your wife has shared quite a bit about your 'literary' interests. It seems we have a lot to catch up on."
Without another word, Victoria climbed onto the bed, her movements fluid and athletic. She got up on her knees, looming directly over my head. She swung one leg over my face, the scent of her skin and the heat of her body overwhelming the smell of the latex hood. Then, she lowered herself slowly, spreading open the hole in the crotch of her latex shorts, pressing her asshole firmly against the mouth. "Eat my ass," she said. "If you do a good job, and if your beautiful wife allows it, I may let you lick my pussy."
The pressure of Victoria's weight against your face, combined with the restriction of the latex hood, made every breath a calculated effort. The world had narrowed down to the intense, salty scent of her skin, the musky taste of her ass, and the cold, unyielding stretch of the dildo still buried deep in my ass, as my wife continued to slowly fuck my hole.
"You hear her," your wife's voice came from somewhere near your midsection, her tone vibrating through your hips. "The professional is giving you an order. In your stories, the 'slave' never hesitates. He lives for the chance to be a footstool or a furniture piece for his betters. Show us you're more than just a man with a keyboard."
I pulled my tongue away from her ass for a moment. "Yes, mistress, thank you both," I said before spearing my tongue back into the girl's asshole.
The humiliation was sharp, but the sensory overload was even sharper. Above me, Victoria let out a low, approving hum, her fingers trailing down my chest, her long, dark nails tracing my nipples.
"He's a quick learner, isn't he?" Victoria remarked, her voice airy and detached. She shifted her weight, grinding her ass against your mouth. "But we aren't here just for a meal. I brought my kit, just like you asked."
The sound of a heavy, zippered bag opening echoed from the foot of the bed. My heart skipped a beat as the metallic clinking returned--this time more surgical, more precise.
"Victoria thinks the 'Mistress' character in your latest story was right," my wife whispered, her breath hot against your stomach. "That a permanent mark is the only way to ensure the protagonist remembers his place even when the mask comes off.
She has a very special ring picked out for you. One that will match mine perfectly."
Victoria leaned forward slightly, giving me just enough room to breathe. She was also letting me see what was happening, as she reached for the small, sterilized tray. On it sat a gleaming, hollow-point needle and a thick silver hoop, reflecting the harsh light of the bedroom lamp.
"Don't worry, Writer," Victoria said, a predatory smile playing on her lips as she looked down at my exposed, throbbing cock. "I'm going to make sure this is a chapter you'll never be able to delete."
Victoria shifted so she had one knee still on the mattress beside my head and she put her high-heel shoe on the other side of me by my shoulder. I was still looking up at her juicy holes, but I could also see my wife and what they were about to do to me.
The metallic tray sat on the edge of the mattress, its surgical coldness a sharp contrast to the humid, latex-heavy air of the room. Victoria reached into her kit and pulled out a pair of black nitrile gloves, snapping them onto her wrists with a sound that echoed the snapping of my wife's latex catsuit.
"The Prince Albert," Victoria whispered, her voice conversational, as if she were discussing the weather rather than the impending piercing of my anatomy. "A classic. It provides a constant weight, a reminder of your status every time you move, every time you dress, and every time your wife decides to take the lead."
"You don't have to do this," I said loudly, panic in my voice.
"I know I don't have to," my wife said with a smile. "I didn't have to get my nipples pierced either, but you wrote it and now we are gonna live it. You should be worried about what other stories you wrote that I might want to reenact."
I looked up at my wife. Her eyes, framed by the dark of her latex hood, were wide and dark. She reached out and gripped my thighs, pulling my legs tight against the sides of her body. Her arms wrapped tight around my legs to keep my lower body perfectly still.
"Hold him, Victoria," my wife commanded.
Victoria shifted her position forward; she reached down and took hold of my cock. Her touch was professional, cold, and utterly detached. She began to clean the area with a stinging antiseptic wipe, the sharp scent of alcohol cutting through the smell of rubber and lube.
"In your stories," Victoria said, her thumb pressing against the head of my cock, "the protagonist usually screams at this part. But you... you're going to stay perfectly still for your Mistress, while I drive this 8-gauge needle through your cock, aren't you?"
The needle was long and hollow, gleaming under the bedside lamp. I felt the dildo inside me shift as my wife leaned forward, her weight pressing against my hips to anchor me. She wanted to feel every jump, every twitch of my muscles when the steel went through.
"Ready, honey?" my wife asked, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register again. "This is the part where the fiction ends."
Victoria didn't wait for my consent. She didn't need it; the handcuffs and the weight of two women had already stripped that away. I saw the tip of the needle align with the center of my world. I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath catching in my throat as I waited for the sharp, transformative bite of the metal.
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy creak of my wife's latex suit as she leaned her full weight onto my thighs. The pressure of the dildo still buried in my ass served as a grounding rod for the sheer panic rising in my chest.
"Deep breath," Victoria commanded. It wasn't a suggestion.
As the needle made contact, the world narrowed to a single, searing point of sensation. It wasn't the quick pinch of a vaccination; it was a slow, deliberate slide of cold steel through sensitive tissue. I let out a muffled, strangled cry into the latex of my mask, my body instinctively trying to arch away, but my wife's grip was like iron. She hummed a low, vibrating note against your skin, a sound of dark approval that mirrored the descriptions in your own chapters.
"There," Victoria whispered, her voice sounding miles away through the rush of adrenaline in your ears. "The hard part is over. Now for the jewelry."
I felt the slight, sickening click of the thick silver hoop sliding into the path the needle had cleared. The weight was immediate--a heavy, cold tugging that felt alien and permanent. Victoria expertly clicked the ball into the ring, the metallic snap signaling the end of my life as a mere observer.
My wife reached down, her gloved fingers trembling slightly with excitement as she touched the new addition to my body. "Look at that," she breathed, her eyes darting between my face and my crotch. "My very own marked man."
She didn't give me time to process the shock. She stood up, the harness creaking loudly, and looked at Victoria. "I think the protagonist needs to show his gratitude to the guest star. And since he's already properly 'accessorized,' I think he can handle both of us at once."
Victoria slid back down, her bare, pierced breasts brushing against my chest as she reclaimed her position over my face. My wife, meanwhile, slowly started fucking my ass again.
"We've only just begun, sweetheart," my wife whispered, adjusting her hood. "And I've got a whole archive of your stories I want to get through."
The transition from author to object had shattered the fourth wall of my mind, leaving me in a state of existential vertigo. As the cold weight of the new piercing tugged at my skin, the realization hit that my "delete" key no longer existed; I had effectively handed my wife the blueprints for my own undoing. Every taboo I had safely tucked away behind a screen could now be a physical demand, and the "delicious terror" that I once described with clinical detachment had become a suffocating, breathless reality.
For months, those stories were a secret garden where I held absolute power, but now the words I chose for your own titillation could be used as a script for my submission. I was no longer the creator; I was an actor being forced to live out my fantasies, and some of them were fucked up.
The most shameful, hidden corners of my mind had been exposed, and my wife had responded, not with judgment--but I'm sure that would come later--but with a predatory enthusiasm that was far more terrifying.
Panic swelled as I mentally flipped through the pages of my Literotica profile. I begin to calculate the "cost" of my creativity: I remembered the stories involving my stepdaughter's friend and eventually her herself, or multiple mistresses doing dirty things to me.
Victoria's presence proves my wife isn't just playing--she's casting. I wrote about things I was too "boring" to try, assuming they were physically impossible or socially ruinous. Now, I'm realizing my wife's threshold for intensity might actually exceed my own. I realize that she has likely been planning this since the moment she found the first story, and I wrote quite a few disturbing stories.
The sharp slap of her hand against my hip stiung through the latex, making me realize I had zoned out, thinking about which of my disturbing stories my wife was gonna want to live out next. "Hey, are you fucking sleeping down there or what?" my wife snarled, her pace turning frantic and punishing. "I'm sitting here planning how to turn your sickest paragraphs into our sexual escapades, and you're just zoning out!"
Exactly what I feared most. I am so fucked!
The rhythmic creak of the latex reached a fever pitch as Victoria shifted her weight, pressing the slick heat of her pussy firmly against my mouth. I worked my tongue with desperate intensity, hoping what I had done for years to satisfy my wife worked on this hot woman as well.
My wife's thrusts became more deliberate, her voice slicing through your sensory haze with a new, sharp intent. "You know, Victoria," my wife panted, her gloved hands gripping your hips so hard the rubber groaned, "our 'author' here has some very specific ideas about what happens in this bed. In one of his stories, he describes coming home to find me pinned down by a woman just like you. He wrote about the way he stood in the doorway, paralyzed, watching every touch, every lick, unable to do anything but witness his own insignificance... and jerk off."
She delivered a deep, punishing lunge with the dildo that forced a muffled cry from my mouth into Victoria's pussy. "Since he's already restrained and wearing that beautiful new silver ring, making him incapable of fucking either of us for what, 8 weeks, I think after this, the next story we reenact for him is the front-row seat he's always wanted. I want you to show me exactly how you'd make me scream while he watches, knowing he can't join in, and in this story, he can't even jerk off."
Victoria let out a low, wicked laugh. "I think that's a brilliant edit to his script. Let's see if he can handle the view, after he makes me cum, of course, cause I'm getting close."
I pushed aside my panic and channeled every ounce of focus into my tongue, swirling and flicking with a frantic, desperate rhythm against Victoria's pussy. My tongue worked like a piston, deep and relentless, tracing her curves until I felt her inner thighs begin to quiver uncontrollably against my masked cheeks.
Above me, Victoria's breath turned into sharp, ragged gasps as she ground herself harder against my mouth. The pressure from behind increased as my wife matched the tempo, her dildo slamming home in sync with my tongue's movements, creating a brutal, rhythmic pincer effect that pushed me to the edge of sensory overload. She was beating my prostate with her strap-on, and I felt a massive orgasm building.
"That's it, use that mouth like you've been practicing for years!" Victoria cried out, her voice breaking as her climax finally hit, her entire body rigid and vibrating against my face. I was doused in a massive amount of sweet, sticky juice from her pussy.
I was moaning loudly into her pussy, feeling like I was about to cum myself. "Are you going to cum, baby?" my wife asked. I groaned loudly, sucking on Victoria's clit, making her moan too. My wife fucked my ass even harder; the rhythmic pounding of the ass intensified. She kept driving deep into my core until every nerve ending screamed.
Her voice was a low snarl as she pushed me past the point of no return. "Take it all," she commanded, the latex of her suit popping with every violent lunge. The pressure against my prostate became an unbearable, white-hot heat that short-circuited my brain.
Without a single touch to my shaft, my body erupted. Thick, creamy fluid began to ooze from my flaccid cock, bubbling up and seeping around the metal of the fresh Prince Albert ring. I screamed into Victoria's pussy, no longer caring about licking it, my muscles twitching in the aftershock, while my wife continued to grind slowly, ensuring I felt every inch of my submission.
She leaned down and whispered, "That's just the prologue, honey. We're nowhere near finished with you." Then she slowly pulled her thick strap-on out of my ass, making my body shake one more time. She quickly picked up the butt plug and pushed it into my gaping asshole. "Just to keep you ready for later," she said with a smile.
The beautiful goth girl had gotten up off my face and had crawled down to my wife, who was still kneeling between my spread legs. They wrapped their arms around each other and started kissing, my wife pushing her tongue, through her latex mask, into Victoria's mouth.
After what felt like forever, my wife broke the kiss, her breathing heavy. She looked down at me, then at the mess on my stomach--the evidence of a purely prostate-driven climax. She reached out with her gloved hand, her fingers tracing the edge of my new piercing. She smeared the cum with her fingers, playing with it.
"Look at him, Victoria," she said, her voice dripping with a newfound, dark confidence. "He's so overwhelmed he can barely breathe." Then she took her cum-coated fingers and pushed them into my mouth.
"Good job, slave hubby! That's what the mistress wife called her submissive husband in the story, right?" she asked. I slowly shook my head yes. "Slave hubby," she repeated.
By discovering my stories, my wife hadn't just found a secret; she found a "manual" for my subconscious. The fact that she went as far as getting herself pierced and convincing Victoria to come pierce me indicates she isn't just "trying things out"--she has fully embraced the role of the Mistress I've spent months detailing. This does not bode well for me.
Victoria leaned back and stood tall for a moment, then reached out and gripped my wife's shoulders with a firm, dominant strength. With a sudden, forceful shove, she pushed my wife down onto the mattress right next to me. My wife landed with a heavy, muffled thud and a loud squeak of latex, her legs splayed wide in total submission.
Victoria moved between my wife's thick thighs, her hands reaching down to pull the latex apart, exposing the wet, open zipper in the crotch of the catsuit. She looked up at me, her dark eyes flashing with a wicked, competitive glint.
"You lick pussy good," Victoria sneered, her voice dropping into a low, predatory growl. "But watch me. I'll show you how to do it even better."
Without waiting for a response, she plunged her face into my wife's pussy, pushing her tongue deep through the opening of the latex. My wife let out a long, high-pitched moan that vibrated through the mattress and against my own skin. I lay there, shackled and plugged, paralyzed in total disbelief as I watched Victoria tongue-fuck the woman who had just conquered me. The sound of wet, rhythmic lapping filled the room, a vivid demonstration that my wife had found someone who could master her just as effectively as she had mastered me. My wife was moaning loudly, running her gloved fingers through the woman's hair.
As Victoria continued to lick my wife's pussy, she occasionally looked up at me, ensuring I was watching every moment of her masterclass. My wife's moans were getting louder, her fingers digging into Victoria's scalp, her body arching off the bed in a way it never has for me.
"Is this what you wanted to see, Author?" Victoria asked, her face glistening as she pulled back for a second to breathe. "Because I think your wife is about to show you exactly how much she prefers my tongue to your stories." She speared her tongue back into my wife's wet pussy.
My wife let out a shattered cry as she reached her peak, her body shuddering violently next to me. As the room settled into a heavy, post-orgasmic silence, Victoria stood up, looking down at the two of us--a big smile on her face.
The heavy silence that followed was broken only by the rhythmic, labored breathing of all three of us. My wife lay beside me, her chest heaving, the silver rings in her nipples catching the light as they rose and fell. I could see the slight tremor in her hands as she reached up to adjust her hood.
Victoria stood over both of us, a dark silhouette of absolute authority. She reached for a tissue from the box on the nightstand, casually cleaning her face before looking down at me. "He's a good watcher," she noted to my wife. "Very attentive. Just like you said he'd be."
My wife finally sat up, the latex of her suit letting out a long, protesting creak. She looked at me--not with the affection of a partner, but with the cool, analytical gaze of a director who had just finished a successful first take.
"The best part is," my wife whispered, leaning over me so the scent of her climax and her sweat filled my mask, "this was only the first story. And I've already bookmarked the one about the 'weekend in the basement' with the heavy-duty restraints."
She reached out and gave the silver ring in my cock a sharp, playful flick. The jolt of pain and sensation made your toes curl against the towels. "We have so much more 'research' to do, slave hubby. Victoria is staying the night. We are gonna go have some wine." She got up and took Victoria's hand in hers, and they walked out together, the sound of their laughing cut off as the door closed.
