Home in twenty minutes. Be in the cage.
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The clock was ticking and I had no time to waste. I slipped into the bedroom, quickly shedding my clothes before neatly folding them and tucking them inside the closet. The hood lay on the floor of the cage—a thick leather piece complete with a mask and gag, waiting to snap shut over my head. But that final restraint would come a moment later.
First, I grasped my cock and balls through the small semi-circular cutout in the cage door and gently rested them there. Slowly, I closed the upper half of the door, trapping my genitals securely on the outside. The opening sat a bit high, forcing me onto my tiptoes as I shuffled backward to position myself inside properly.
Not quite ready to seal myself in just yet.
The rubber plug gag was next, a thick bit I had to push through the steel-lined hole over my mouth. The wider end remained outside the hood, snugly held in place by straps with poppers that pulled it tight. Another leather band, shaped like an eye mask, settled over the metal rings above my eyes, plunging me into complete darkness.
Fumbling for the outer door’s catch, muscle memory guided me until I heard the reassuring click releasing the lock. The outer door swung shut, disguising the cage as part of the sleek, built-in wardrobe.
I shuffled until my heel tapped a slight lip and lifted up to steady myself. My bare bottom pressed against the cold wooden board. The cage allowed only standing upright, arms locked at my side. Pulling the inner door closed, the locks engaged with an ominous clack. Moments later, the outer door pressed against my trapped genitals and locked me away, swallowed by shadows.
There I stood, waiting. Listening. The pounding in my ears nearly deafened me. Cool air circulated around my bare skin, sending an involuntary shiver through me—equal parts cold and anticipation.
Then, the apartment door shut behind her. My senses sharpened, detecting the synchronized movements of two people nearby.
My mind conjured the image of her exactly as I’d seen her when I dropped her off at the bar: natural black curls piled into a puff, flawless makeup highlighting her natural beauty. An emerald green dress clinging tight from her shoulders down past her knees, the zipper lowered just enough to reveal a provocative cleavage. The fabric hugged her curves so closely she’d abandoned underwear to keep the silhouette perfect, and the black spiked heels with painted toes completed the picture of sensual elegance.
“He’s here,” she said.
Jealousy surged sharply. My hand pressed against her arm in a desperate, futile attempt to stop her.
“I love you,” she whispered.
She turned, placing a warm hand on my cheek. Her touch comforted me, and I exhaled softly.
“Do you want me to call it off?”
My vanilla self screamed yes—remember the vows, the promises we made.
But I replied, “I want you to be happy.”
Her lips curved into a tender smile, easing the edge of my pain.
“Cheating on you makes me happy,” she said softly.
My jealousy ignited into something fierce. My vanilla self teetered on the edge of fury.
“I love you,” she confessed, “but you’re no good lover. Sex with you is disappointing, and your penis is too small to even mention.”
She had told me that countless times, yet each time the impact shattered something inside me. Her words were undeniable truth. Eventually, my vanilla self fused with my submissive side—I accepted enduring the humiliation of my wife with others because I loved her, because this was the only way she could satisfy her sexual hunger.
With a deft hand, she pulled the door open.
“Anyway, you’ll get your thrill later.”
The bedroom door banged open. They stumbled in and collapsed onto the bed—our bed, the one I made up with fresh sheets.
Breathless, she guided him—where to touch, where to stroke, how to squeeze—each press and caress evoking gasps of pleasure from her swollen lips.
I should be the one pleasing her—hands on her soft, dark skin; face buried beneath her heavy breasts, suckling her hard nipples; tongue teasing between her cheeks, stimulated by the arousing scent and taste of her body. I should be the lips pressed against her hot, wet folds, bringing her the bliss she’d taught me to deliver.
Instead, I stood confined in my small, dark cage, listening. Their lovemaking rising in crescendos, the bed groaning beneath their passion. Her moans mingled with his.
“Oh baby, I want you to cum inside me,” she gasped.
Desperation tinged her voice. I pictured her above me, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, eyes hunting mine for release—pleading for connection.
But it wasn’t me there. It was him—the deeper, stronger man who grunted and gasped, holding back his climax for as long as possible.
The moment arrived in a glorious, triumphant chorus of two voices as one. It swept over me, annihilating every shred of my dignity. My strength crumbled and I fought to keep my knees from buckling. There was no room to fall, nor could I—my trapped genitals would have been torn mercilessly.
Did it even matter? What use did I have for them now?
“Fuck, baby,” she breathed.
“Fuck, yeah,” he responded, voice deep and commanding.
They kissed and shifted on the bed, drawing closer with satisfied smiles.
“God, I needed that fuck.”
“He ain’t doin’ it for you?”
“Told you. Little white dick.”
He laughed, and I grimaced.
“Does he know you do this?”
They always ask. Always after the first time. I imagine she filters out those who question before the encounter. After all, her ad leaves no doubt.
Married black woman seeks younger black bull for no-strings sex.
Two photos accompany it: one revealing deep cleavage, the other a naked posterior—neither revealing her identity.
“How many do you think I’ll get this time?”
At least a dozen. They range from turgid one-liners to long essays filled with explicit detail, often accompanied by their own penis photos. As if that would impress her.
“Read them to me,” she said.
We lay naked together in bed as I read each message, discarding short ones and bringing the lengthy, salacious fantasies to life. She watched, entertained by my mounting humiliation as I detailed how men desired her—the woman I loved.
And I was denied.
My cock remained locked tightly within her metal sheath, stubbornly refusing to rise despite my aching need. As I spun the tales, I imagined myself in their place, the one thrusting deep inside her.
She knew this, of course—that’s why she asked about my techniques, quizzed me on how I’d do better, gently stroking my shrunken balls.
And then came the real sex—not for me, though. A harness fastened over the cage holding me captive, with a large silicone dildo threaded through the ring. We made love as husband and wife—or as close to it as a submissive cuckold could get.
The cage would not come off until the morning of her next encounter. Until then, I endured unending frustration—sometimes wearing the harness for her pleasure, sometimes using my mouth to serve her. I watched her masturbate, her hands caressing herself as she recounted tales of her lovers—how they fucked her, how they eclipsed me.
The nights culminated before visits to the “playspace,” where she unleashed her darker side—calling me names, meting out pain and humiliation on my pale skin. The scenes we enacted in our home were tame compared to the wickedness she unleashed on a willing masochist under a sadist’s gaze.
“Yeah, he knows,” she said, and I sank back into my prison.
A long, heavy silence stretched between their voices.
“Couldn’t do it,” he confessed. “My girl having sex with someone else? Nah. Not for me.”
“And yet, you’re fucking a married woman,” she retorted sharply.
I knew that tone—disappointment layered under bravado. He didn’t realize it yet, but he wouldn’t return. I exhaled a small relief that, at least for now, my humiliation wouldn’t be shared.
“I like my sub to know,” she said, the bed creaking beneath her as she stood. “Sometimes I like him to watch.”
The outer door thudded again as she leaned against it. My heart raced with the threat of exposure.
What he said next…?
“Nah. I mean, I’ve been with two girls, but another guy? Nah.”
“So that pub talk was just talk?”
The anger was tightly restrained for now.
The bed thumped once more, the door banged—he must have tried to kiss her.
“You know my husband’s been here the whole time?”
The door clicked open. Every fiber in me screamed, begging it to close again, desperate to hide my helplessness—being trapped and forced to listen while my wife was fucked.
“What the fuck!” he shouted. I heard him stumble off the edge of the bed in shock.
Her hand gently cupped my balls through the bars, warm and soft. I couldn’t help but moan as her thumb stroked and squeezed slowly.
“I told you, I’m a cuckoldress,” she said, voice shifting as if facing me directly. “I fuck other men to humiliate and dominate him—to show who’s boss in our marriage.”
Her fingers trailed through the cage bars, massaging my chest. Then her nails dug into my nipple, sharp needles of pain exploding through sensitive flesh.
“I’ve never been faithful, even when we met. I was sleeping with others. When they rejected me for it, he stayed. Stayed loyal. Isn’t that right, my little cuck?”
Every word engraved itself in my mind, recalling the day she confessed her affairs on a park bench. I should have been outraged. I should have walked away.
But something within me acknowledged the truth. I think she knew it too, at some deep level. She understood my reaction—not one of anger, but fascinated masochism. I craved humiliation, and she wielded the power to deliver it in abundance.
“You’re fucking perverts,” I said, breath ragged.
“Technically, you fucked a pervert,” she quipped with a wicked grin. “You better get going now.”
Clothes rustled as he gathered his discarded things. She stayed with me, fingers still caressing in soft, gentle play.
“I should warn people about you,” he hissed from the next room.
“You won’t be the first to try,” she responded coolly.
The apartment door slammed shut. Silence enfolded us. Only the faint moans muffled behind my gag and the whisper of her thumb gliding over my smooth balls pierced the quiet.
“Shame,” she murmured softly. “He had such a nice, thick cock. Long, too. You’d have enjoyed deep-throating him.”
Sudden loud clicks—the cage unlocked, my genitals finally freed. I staggered forward, steadying myself.
“Bend over a little,” she instructed.
She peeled the zipper from the back of my hood and pulled it off, tossing it to a corner. My eyes stung as the flood of light overwhelmed the darkness. I took in the room—the bed with its rumpled sheets, pillows scattered haphazardly, a discarded condom leaking onto the mattress protector.
And then her: my stunning wife, naked and wild. Her hair spread in a disheveled halo, makeup smudged, lips faded, with traces of his hands marked on her flawless skin.
That glowing, satisfied smile—the unmistakable emblem of a woman fulfilled.
She climbed onto the bed, arranged the pillows behind her, and settled with legs parted and knees bent.
“Clean me,” she whispered.
I knelt beside her, inhaling the rich scent of her spent orgasm, the bitter tang of another man lingering on my tongue.
She purred softly—a contented, teasing sound.
“Do you want me to tell you all about it?”
Shame and self-disgust rose swiftly.
“Yes, please. Tell me every detail,” I begged.
She cupped my face with her hands, lifting my head to meet her gaze. That cruel, wicked smile twisted on her lips once more.
“Oh, I won’t leave anything out, my sweet little cuckold husband. Now, put his condom on and lie back.”
I lay still as she straddled me, sliding gently down onto my aching erection. After weeks of torment and denial, I was finally granted release—fucked by my wife, while she whispered of how much better her lover had been.
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