It hadn’t been the greatest day. I was fucking pissed. Getting screamed at by my boss at thirty-six, after grinding my ass off at that same corporate shithole for ten fucking years, will do that to you. Especially when it was some other entitled fuck-up’s mistake that nearly tanked the huge McDermot deal. Whatever. I took the blame. I always fucking do. I’m used to that shit. My wife’s always telling me I should grow a pair and say something… whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. Fuck, I hate that job, but the paycheck’s decent for a nine-to-five. Anyway, my point is, I wasn’t in the best mood when I got home, but I’ve never been one to drag work shit through the front door.
“Babe, I’m back!” I called out, my voice already distant, fingers working at the knot of my tie. Silence. Weird. I headed straight for the bedroom. I needed to strip out of this suffocating suit and disappear into a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Like I’d done a thousand times before, I pushed open the bedroom door, but my whole fucking world shattered into a million jagged pieces this time.
A stupidly handsome kid was sprawled across my king-size bed like he fucking owned it, his head propped up against a mountain of my white pillows. It was Kit. That messy, textured blonde quiff on top—sun-bleached streaks catching the last of the afternoon light—with a sharp high fade on the sides. Perfect cheekbones, a jawline that looked carved from granite, and those piercing green eyes, already locked onto me the second I crossed the threshold. A slow, devastating smirk crept across his face, digging dimples into his cheeks, mocking me before my brain could even catch up. Stark fucking naked. His body was that lean, carved twenty-year-old physique that comes from good genetics and zero fucks given—all smooth, sun-kissed skin and defined chest you see on guys who were born winning. But what stole my breath, what made my throat clamp shut and my pulse hammer behind my eyeballs, was his dick. It lay there across a set of balls that looked heavy and full, big, thick and veiny and still shiny with spit. Someone else’s spit. I suddenly knew whose. I fucking knew.
“Oh, shit,” Kit said, not even bothering to sit up or cover himself. His voice was lazy, amused, dripping with the confidence of a kid who’d never been told ‘no’. “If you’re looking for that whore you call a wife, she’s in the kitchen grabbing me a beer.”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out. Just a dry click in the back of my throat.
He stretched his arms behind his head, sinking deeper into my pillows. My fucking pillows. The scent of him—young male sweat, cheap deodorant, and something else, something primal and musky—already hung in the air. “We’re gearing up for round two. Why don’t you pull up a chair and watch how a real man fucks?”
The word real hit me like a physical blow. I stood there frozen, briefcase still in my hand, my polished work shoes still on my feet, my brain short-circuiting. This kid—this fucking kid I’d hired three days ago to paint the damn garage—was in my bed. Naked. Cock out. Telling me my wife was fetching him refreshments.
I heard her before I saw her.
Bare footsteps in the hall. Light. Eager. Then that little humming sound she makes when she’s happy—the same tune she used to hum when we were getting ready for date nights, back when she actually gave a shit about me. My stomach dropped straight through the floorboards.
Megan walked right past me like I was furniture. Like I didn’t fucking exist. She was wearing nothing. God, she was fucking gorgeous. Thirty-two and possessing that heavy, effortless beauty that doesn’t beg for attention—it just takes it. Thick waves of raven hair fell past her shoulders, making her sharp, striking features look almost lethal. Her full, perky tits bounced with each step as she walked to him. In her hand was a bottle of my IPA, the fancy craft shit I’d been saving for a special occasion. She climbed onto the bed beside Kit, her knee sinking into the mattress, and handed him the beer with both hands, head slightly bowed like she was presenting a holy offering.
“Here you go,” she said, and her voice was different. Softer. Submissive in a way I’d never heard in eleven years of marriage. “Is there anything else you need, Kit?”
Kit took the beer without even looking at her. He was still watching me, those green eyes dancing with pure, sadistic amusement. “Not right now, slut. Go ahead and get back to work.”
Get back to work.
Megan turned to me then, and for a split second, I thought I’d see shame in her face, or guilt, or something fucking human. But her eyes were glassy and satisfied, her lips swollen and red, and there was a smear of something white at the corner of her mouth. She wiped it with her thumb and sucked it clean while maintaining eye contact with me. Then she crawled down the bed, positioned herself between Kit’s spread legs, and took his half-hard cock in both hands like it was a sacred relic.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about this taste all day,” she whispered, her voice husky with want, and lowered her mouth onto him.
Kit chuckled, the sound rich and dark. “I’ll bet, you cum-thirsty bitch!”
My ears rang. I simply couldn’t believe it. My wife. My wife of eleven fucking years. Worshipping some kid’s dick while I stood there in my work clothes holding my goddamn briefcase. And the way he talked to her. Slut. Cum-thirsty bitch. Why wasn’t I charging across the room? Why wasn’t I punching this mutherfucker in the face?
Kit took a long pull from my beer and grinned at me over the bottle. “You gonna stand there with your mouth hanging open like a fucking faggot, or you gonna pull up a chair? I’m dead serious about the watching thing. Educational purposes for beta bitches like you.”
“This is—” I started, but my voice cracked. I sounded like a scared teenager. “Megan, what the actual fuck—”
She didn’t even turn around. Her mouth was stuffed full of his cock, her head bobbing with a rhythm I’d never seen her use on me. Wet. Sloppy. Loud. She was making these little choked sounds in the back of her throat—whimpers and moans—and her hips were rocking against the mattress like she was getting off just from sucking him. Her pussy was wet, glistening, and there was whitish cun oozing out of it. His cum. And I wasn’t moving a muscle.
Kit laughed. A big, genuine, balls-out laugh that filled the room. “Bro… look at you. Just standing there. I was at least expecting to have to get up and kick your ass, but bro, this is even better than I thought! Your wife’s gagging on my dick and you’re just… there. Like a useless cuck.”
He was right. I was. And I hated that he was right. But what I hated most, what made my skin crawl with shame, was the undeniable stiffening in my trousers, my cock pressing against the zipper in a hot, aching line.
“Let me break this down for you,” Kit said, settling back, one hand on the beer, the other fisting Megan’s hair. Not gentle. He grabbed a thick handful of her dark curls and twisted. She moaned louder, the sound vibrating around his shaft. “Three days, man. Three fucking days. First day I show up to paint your garage, you’re out there in your little khakis, talking about extension cords like a total fag, and I see your wife eye-fucking me through the kitchen window. You missed it. Too busy being a beta. But I saw it. She was looking at me like I was the last meal on earth.”
Megan gagged. A deep, throaty gag that made her shoulders hitch. Kit pushed her head down harder, his knuckles white.
“Second day,” he continued, casual as fuck, like he was discussing the game, “I’m on the ladder, she comes out with lemonade. Short shorts. No bra. ‘Oh Kit, you must be so hot.’ Like I was gonna fall for that sweet housewife act. I knew what she was. A hungry bitch looking for a real dick. Right, slut?”
He directed this last part down at Megan. She pulled off his dick long enough to gasp, “Yes, Kit. Yes, sir,” before diving back down like a woman possessed, her nose buried in his pubes.
“And the third day—well.” He spread his free hand, gesturing grandly at the scene before us. “Third day, she’s on her knees in the garage with my cock in her mouth before I even finished setting up the drop cloth. Ain’t that right, whore?”
Megan made a wet, affirmative sound around his shaft, her head bobbing faster, more desperately.
I was hard. Fully, painfully, undeniably hard. The fabric of my trousers was stretched taut. And of course, Kit noticed.
“Wait!!! Hold the fuck up!” He pointed the beer bottle at my crotch, his eyes widening in mock astonishment. “No fucking way. Are you—are you fucking bricked up right now?” He leaned forward, squinting for a better look. “You are! Holy shit, you’re getting off on this! You’re a total fucking cuck!”
“I’m not—” I tried, but my voice was wrecked, my face on fire, my cock absolutely fucking throbbing.
Kit threw his head back and howled with laughter. “This is fucking perfect! You’re a legit cuck! A total simp! I knew it! I fucking knew it from the jump! The way you wouldn’t look me in the eye. The way you said ‘thank you’ like three times when I told you my rate. That weak-ass, dead-fish handshake. I was like, this dude’s got cuck energy written all over him. And here you are, proving me right!”
“Get out,” I whispered. The words were pathetic, airless.
He didn’t even blink. “Nah. I don’t think so, bitch. I ain’t moving an inch, and I think you’re gonna stay right there too and watch me skull-fuck your cocksucking wife. And you’re gonna love it. You’re already loving it. Your dick’s about to bust through your zipper, you sad little fag.”
The word—fag—hit me like a slap. My face burned hotter. But my cock didn’t soften. If anything, it got harder, twitching against the confinement of my briefs. And Kit saw that too. The smirk on his gorgeous, cruel face was as painful as my erection.
“Say it,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a darker register. “Say ‘I’m a cuck.’ Say it out loud.”
I shook my head, tears of shame starting to well in my eyes.
Megan pulled off his cock with a wet, obscene pop. “Just say it, Mark.” Her voice was hoarse. Used. Raw from taking him deep. “It’s the truth anyway, and he wants to hear it.”
My wife. Telling me to call myself a cuck. While another man’s cock rested on her lower lip, shiny and slick with her spit.
“Megan, what happened to you—”
“What happened,” she said, turning to look at me for the first time with something like pitiful clarity, “is that Kit made me cum more in one afternoon than you have in eleven years. What happened is I finally know what a real orgasm feels like. What a real man feels like.” She stroked his shaft while she talked, long, slow pulls that made the thick veins stand out in stark relief. “Can you see how big he is, Mark? Can you even imagine what this feels like inside of me? I’m sorry, but I want him to keep fucking me. In any way he wants.” She was trying to explain it rationally, even as her eyes glazed over with pure, slavish devotion.
Kit chuckled, supremely pleased with himself. She turned back to him, her expression shifting to one of shameless begging. “Can I taste you again? Please? I need it.”
He shrugged, magnanimous. “Go ahead, whore. But this time, I want you to tell me how it tastes. Describe it. Your cuck hubby’s gonna learn something today.”
Megan descended on his cock like a woman starved, her entire body language shifting from human to something more primal in the space of a single heartbeat. She didn’t just lower her mouth—she worshipped her way down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, starting at the base where his balls hung heavy and full, trailing up inch by agonizing inch. Her tongue traced the thick underside with excruciating slowness, from the heavy sac all the way to the swollen, purple head, and when she got there, she made a sound that was pure, unfiltered bliss.
“God,” she breathed against the tip, her eyes fluttering closed. “You taste like sweat. Real sweat. Masculine. Strong.”
She licked the crown again, savoring it, her tongue swirling around the ridge like she was trying to memorize every contour. “You taste like a man who’s been working hard all day,” she continued, her voice reverent, almost drunk. “Like you’ve been out there sweating your ass off, and now you’re letting me—you’re letting me clean you.”
She pulled back just enough to look at what she was doing, her hands cradling his balls like they were precious artifacts. She lifted them gently, pressing her nose against the sweaty skin, inhaling deep and slow. A shiver ran through her. “And your balls,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Fuck, Kit. They smell incredible. You probably didn’t even shower this morning, did you?” she asked, and there was no accusation in her voice. Only awe. “You just rolled out of bed and came to work… mmmmm…” She licked them. Soft at first, then harder, her tongue snaking out to taste the musky crease where his balls met his thigh.
“You got that right, whore!” he chuckled, that lazy, cruel grin fixed on me. “Knew some bitch was gonna suck me off anyway. Why fucking bother? You should be glad it was you!”
Megan giggled, an absurdly happy sound. “I am, Kit! Thanks so much, stud!”
“You dumb, fucking whore! Keep going,” Kit commanded, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You taste better than anything I’ve ever had in my mouth,” Megan continued, and she was talking to his cock now, not to me, not to anyone else. Just to his cock. “You’re so thick. I can barely fit you. My jaw aches, but I don’t care. I want it to ache. I want to feel you in my throat for days. I want my mouth to taste like you forever.”
Kit’s hand tightened in her hair. “You hear that? That’s your wife, bro. Talking to my dick like it’s a fucking god.”
I was on my knees before I knew I was moving.
My briefcase thudded to the carpet somewhere behind me. My knees hit the floor just inside the doorway, and I didn’t remember deciding to kneel. But there I was. Kneeling. Watching. My cock trapped painfully in my trousers, my balls aching, my whole body trembling with something that wasn’t just shame—it was worship. The smell of him—that potent, young, testosterone-laced sweat—was frying my brain, making my thoughts fuzzy and submissive.
“Oh, look at that!” Kit crowed, his voice triumphant. “He’s on his knees! The cuck is on his knees! This is where you belong, ain’t it? Down there. Watching your betters, faggot!”
I couldn’t speak. My throat was too tight.
“Answer me, cuck. Is this where you belong?”
“Yes,” I heard myself say. The truest, most shameful word I’d spoken all day.
Kit’s grin widened into something cruel and delighted. “Fuck yes it is. Now crawl over here, cuck. I want you close enough to see her throat bulge around me. I want you to hear every gag, every choke, every wet little sound your wife makes while I use her face like a fucking fleshlight. Crawl, you pathetic faggot. On your hands and knees like the bitch you are.”
My body moved before my brain could catch up. I crawled across the carpet, my knees screaming against the fibers, my palms flat. I stopped at the foot of the bed, close enough to smell Megan’s perfume utterly overwhelmed by the musk of his sweat, her spit, and his raw, dominant scent. My face was inches from his foot. I could see the dirt under his toenails, the fine hairs on his ankle.
“That’s it, cunt.” He set down the empty beer bottle with a clink. “Now watch your wife’s throat get wrecked.” He grabbed Megan’s skull with both hands, fingers digging into her scalp, and slammed her mouth down onto his cock. Not a thrust. A ram. Her nose hit his pubic bone and she gagged violently, her whole body convulsing, but her hands were gripping his thighs, not pushing him away, pulling him closer. Her throat bulged obscenely with each thrust. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. Spit ran in rivulets down her chin and dripped onto her tits.
Kit was laughing, his abs flexing with the effort. “Feel that, whore? Feel my cock rearranging your fucking throat? This is what you’re good for. This is all you’re good for. Not making fucking lemonade. Not playing house with that pathetic cuck over there. This.”
Megan’s body started to shake. Her thighs clenched and released, and a high, keening sound came from around his cock. She was coming. Actually coming. From having her face fucked.
“She does that,” Kit told me, even as his hips kept up their brutal, piston-like rhythm. “Comes from gagging. Comes from being choked. Came three times this afternoon just from me slapping her around a little. Your wife’s a total masochist, fag. Did you know that? Eleven years and you never figured it out?”
I didn’t know. Never. We’d had sex maybe twice a month, missionary, lights off, quiet. I’d never seen her like this—animalistic, used, ecstatic.
“Because you never gave her what she needed,” Kit said, reading my mind, still pounding her throat. “You were too busy being all respectful and shit. Being a good husband. Being a limp-dicked beta who asked permission before he touched his own wife’s tits. She told me all about it a couple of hours ago, while I was balls deep in her ass. How you’d always ask. ‘Is this okay? Does this feel good?’ Like a fucking pussy.”
He pulled Megan off his cock by her hair. She gasped, coughed, strings of spit connecting her bruised lips to his glistening shaft. Her face was wrecked—makeup smeared, eyes red and streaming, lips swollen to twice their normal size. And she was looking up at Kit with complete, utter adoration.
“Am I lying, whore?”
“No, Kit.” Her voice was raw. Ruined. Beautiful. “You’re not lying.”
“Tell him what you told me. About his dick.”
Megan turned her wrecked, beautiful face toward me. “It’s small,” she said, and there was no malice in it, no cruelty. Just simple, devastating fact. Like she was telling me the time. “I never wanted to say anything. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. But Kit’s cock is twice your size. Three times. I didn’t know what I was missing. I didn’t know sex could feel like this.”
“She was fucking starved,” Kit said, and there was a mock sympathy in his voice now, the cruelest thing yet. “Eleven years eating breadcrumbs. And then I showed up with a five-course meal.” He slapped his thick cock against her cheek, leaving a wet, red mark. “Open up, whore. I’m not done.”
Megan opened her mouth obediently. He shoved back in, hilting himself in one smooth, brutal motion.
The skullfucking resumed, harder now, faster. Kit’s lean hips pistoned. His balls, heavy and full, slapped rhythmically against Megan’s chin. She was making sounds that weren’t human anymore, deep guttural choking mixed with wanton moans, and her body kept shaking, kept coming, orgasm after orgasm rolling through her while he used her face like a toy.
“The only thing that matters,” Kit grunted, his breathing becoming ragged, “is my nut. Not your fucking comfort. Not your breathing. Not your cocksleeve throat. My nut. My cock. My orgasm. That’s the only thing in this room that means jack shit right now. Right, cuck?”
“Right,” I whispered, the word tasting like ash and truth.
“Louder, faggot.”
“Right.”
“Say my nut is all that matters.”
“Your nut is all that matters.”
“My nut is more important than this whore’s ability to breathe.”
“Your nut is more important than her ability to breathe.”
“Fuck yeah, it is!”
Megan gagged violently, her back arching, her hands slapping uselessly at the mattress. Kit didn’t let up. He chuckled, extremely entertained, held her head in place and kept fucking, and her face was turning red, then a concerning shade of purple, and she was still coming, her thighs slick with her own juices.
“Look at that,” Kit breathed, his voice full of dark appreciation. “She’s fucking cumming again. That’s four. Fucking four. Your wife is having multiple orgasms while I choke her out with my cock, and you’re on your knees with a hard-on watching it happen. This is the most honest moment of your entire marriage. You’re both loving this shit!”
He was right. I hated that he was right. But he was. A warm, slick patch of pre-cum was spreading in my briefs.
“Please,” Megan choked out, when he pulled back just enough to let her suck in a ragged breath. “Please, Kit, please come down my throat. I need it. I need to taste you. I need to feel you empty your balls inside me. Please.”
“You want my load, whore?”
“More than anything. More than anything in the world. Please.”
“You want to drink my jizz while your husband watches?”
“Yes. Yes, Kit. Please.”
Kit looked at me. Raised a perfect, arrogant eyebrow. “What do you think, cuck? Should I give your wife what she’s begging for? Or should I make her wait?”
I knew what he wanted me to say. And I said it. Because it was true. Because my cock was leaking and my balls ached with a need that had nothing to do with my own release, and I’d never been this painfully, shamefully hard in my entire life.
“Give it to her.”
“Give what to her?”
“Your… your load.”
“Then fucking beg me to do it, you pathetic faggot!”
My mouth opened. The words were there, the most humiliating words I’d ever spoken, and I wanted to say them more than I’d ever wanted anything.
“P… please give my wife your load, Kit.”
He grinned, a predator toying with his prey. “Fucking lower, faggot! Beg me like I’m a fucking god! Do it, bitch!”
Panic and desire clawed at my throat. I was losing control of everything—this moment, my body, my marriage, my mind. My eyes darted wildly until they landed on Kit’s bare foot, resting casually on the edge of the mattress. It was the only anchor in the storm.
I lunged forward, my hands trembling as I grabbed his ankle. Before I could think, before the last shred of my dignity could stop me, I pressed my lips to the sole of his foot. Then kissed it again. Harder. Desperate. The taste of salt, dirt, and him flooded my mouth.
“Please, sir,” I sobbed against his skin, the words tumbling out in a frantic, wet rush. “I’m begging you… feed my whore wife your load… please!”
Kit’s laughter exploded above me, raw and delighted. “Oh, fuck yes! That’s it! That’s my good little cuck!” He settled back against the headboard, one hand finding Megan’s hair again, the other gesturing dismissively down at me. “You fucking keep doing that, you pathetic faggot! Kiss my foot while I nut. Don’t you fucking stop.”
I obeyed. Of course, I obeyed. My lips moved across his arch, his toes, the side of his foot, planting desperate, worshipful kisses while he began to fuck Megan’s throat in earnest. His hips snapped forward with brutal, final precision. His cock disappeared into her throat again and again, and Megan’s sounds were pure animal now, choking and gagging and moaning, her fingers digging into his muscular thighs, her whole body trembling on the edge of another climax. Each thrust made me kiss harder, faster, my tongue darting out to lick the salt from his skin, my brain dissolving under the potent scent of his dominance.
“Here it comes, whore. Here it fucking comes. Swallow every drop or I’ll make you lick it off the floor.”
His back arched. His toes curled while I was frantically kissing them. A long, low groan of pure pleasure ripped out of his chest, and he buried himself to the hilt in my wife’s throat, and I watched his balls draw up tight against his body, and I knew he was pumping his load directly into her stomach, rope after thick rope of hot, young cum that she’d never even get to taste because it was going straight down her gullet.
“Aaaahhh, fuck yeah!! Ooooooohhhh shiiiiiit!!!” His voice was filled to the brim with unadulterated, pure, youthful triumph.
Megan’s body locked up in a violent spasm. Another orgasm. A massive one—her thighs clamped together, her back bowed like a bowstring, and the sound she made around his pulsing cock was something between a scream and a sob of pure gratitude.
The room descended into a heavy, post-climactic silence, broken only by ragged breathing. Kit slowly loosened his iron grip on her hair, and Megan slipped back just a couple of inches, savoring that dick like she was literally starving. Her face was a masterpiece of ruin—tears, spit, smeared mascara—but she looked more beautiful than I’d ever seen her.
She stuck her tongue out and started lapping at his balls, his pubes, his softening cock, even though she was still gasping and wheezing for air. Clearly, cleaning him was more important. “Thank you,” she whispered between frantic licks. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You taste incredible. The way you treat me… You’re incredible. Thank you for letting me swallow your cum.”
Kit chuckled and patted her head like a well-trained dog. “You’re welcome, whore. And don’t worry, I’mma keep treating you like a dumb sex toy for as long as I want.” He said it, and to my complete horror, she beamed up at him. Genuinely, radiantly happy. “Now get lost, I wanna talk to the cuck. Go make me a sandwich or something, I’m fucking starving. And clean yourself up. You look like a fucking raccoon.”
Megan laughed. A light, happy, thoroughly fucked-out laugh. “Of course, Kit! Coming right up!” She climbed off the bed, her legs shaky and weak, and walked past my kneeling form without a single glance, heading for the hall.
Kit and I were alone.
He sat up against the headboard, completely comfortable, completely at home in my space, in my life. His cock lay soft against his thigh now, still glistening with my wife’s saliva. He picked up the empty beer bottle, looked at it, and set it back down with a sigh.
“Hey fag,” he said, looking down at me. “I only told you to kiss my foot till I nutted, but if you wanna keep doing it, I’m fine with it! Your mouth feels pretty fucking good on my toes.”
I realized with a jolt that my mouth was still moving against the sole of his bare foot, my tongue tracing the lines. His scent—that addictive, brain-melting cocktail of sweat, musk, and raw power—was already crumbling my last defenses. What the fuck was wrong with me?
“I’m… I’m sorry…” I stammered, pulling my face back a fraction of an inch.
“Fucking faggot…” he chuckled, the sound rich with contempt and amusement. “So,” he said, stretching his arms. “Here’s how this is gonna work.”
I was still on my knees. I didn’t think I could stand if I tried. My legs were jelly.
He crossed his arms behind his head, that lazy, conquering grin spreading across his perfect face. “First things first. You’re gonna thank me, you pathetic fucking faggot. Thank me for fucking your cock-starved whore wife like she deserves.”
I opened my mouth. The words came out, broken, desperate, true. “Thank you, Kit. Thank you for fucking my wife.”
“Louder, cuck. Say it like you fucking mean it.”
“Thank you for fucking my wife!” My voice cracked, tears streaming freely down my face now. But I was still hard. So fucking hard it hurt. “Thank you for showing her what a real man feels like!”
“Good fag.” He stretched, the muscles in his torso rippling. “Now here’s the deal. I’m moving in. This is my room now. You’re moving into the garage. You’re a fucking servant in this house from now on, but I don’t wanna see your simp face around here unless I specifically call for you. Got it?”
“Y… yes, Kit.” My cock gave a painful throb of agreement.
“Also you’re gonna start paying for all my expenses,” Kit said, ticking points off on his fingers like he was itemizing a grocery list. “And I’m talking everything, you pathetic faggot. And just so you know, I have no plans of being on a budget. Got that? No fucking budget. If I want a steak dinner, you’re buying it. If I want a new TV for the bedroom—my bedroom—you’re swiping that card like the good little cuck you are.”
My breath hitched. Tears blurred my vision, but my cock was still rock hard, pressing against the soaked fabric of my trousers. I couldn’t look away from him. Couldn’t form a coherent thought.
“You’re gonna keep working,” he continued, his voice dropping into something harder, more final. “You’re gonna wake up every morning, put on your little khakis, and go earn money so I can live like a king in your house and fuck your wife till all her holes are used up and stretched out and I get bored of her. Which might be a while, considering how thirsty that bitch is.”
“Yes,” I breathed, something blissful and terrible breaking open inside my chest. “Yes, yes, yes—”
“If you’re a good little faggot cuck,” he said, leaning forward, his green eyes pinning me in place, “then sometimes, maybe, I might let you crawl up from the garage and watch me use her. You get to stay down there on your fucking knees, where you fucking belong, with your nose pressed to my nasty fucking feet, kissing them like the pathetic shit you are. And while I’m balls-deep inside of her, you’re gonna thank me. You’re gonna say it in your faggy, crying voice—‘thank you, sir, thank you for using my wife’s cunt’—and you’re gonna mean it, because this is the closest you’ll ever get to feeling happy again. Got it, cuck?”
“Y… yes… Kit…”
“Say it all back to me, cuck. Tell me you understand.”
I sobbed the words out, a wave of perverse happiness flooding through me like a warm, shameful drug. “I understand. I’m moving into the garage. You’re taking my money. You’re gonna fuck my wife until you’re bored. And I’m gonna work and support you and be grateful for every second of it—”
My orgasm hit me without warning, like a freight train. I came in my pants, a hot, wet rush that soaked through my briefs and trousers, my whole body convulsing on the carpet at his feet. I kept babbling through the waves of shameful pleasure: “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
Kit threw his head back and howled with laughter, the sound cruel and beautiful and absolutely dominant, filling the room he now owned.
“Fucking faggot! I’m totally gonna squeeze everything from you and that whore! This is fucking awesome!”
As I lay there on the floor, shuddering in the wet aftermath of my humiliation, what I had just agreed to was starting to dawn on me in all its horrifying, permanent detail… And it was hard to tell whether fear, happiness, despair, or twisted lust was the primary emotion exploding in my shattered heart. And in that turmoil of absurd, conflicting sensations, a final, stupidly mundane question surfaced in the wreckage of my mind, so ridiculous it almost made me laugh through my tears.
Why did I ever decide to paint the fucking garage?
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
