Sunday Confessions
An SPH Experience by 8-8funtimes.
It was Sunday morning—late Sunday morning, actually, closer to noon—and the sunlight was cutting through the blinds in sharp, accusatory stripes. My head was foggy, my mouth tasted like copper and stale wine, and my entire body ached in places I didn’t want to think about. The laughter drifted up from downstairs, a chorus of feminine voices that seemed to swell and recede like waves on a shoreline.
My wife’s mother. My wife’s sister. And my wife herself, her laugh rising above the others—bright and careless and a little bit cruel.
I lay there in our bed, tangled in sheets that still smelled like sweat and sex and something else I couldn’t quite identify, and I tried to piece together the fragments of the previous night. They came back in flashes: Desean’s massive frame filling our bedroom doorway. The way his cock had looked—impossibly long, impossibly thick, glistening in the lamplight. My wife’s voice, breathy and eager: Tell him, baby. Tell him what you want him to do to me.
And me, on my knees, saying words I never thought I’d say. Begging another man to fuck my wife in the ass while I watched. While I thanked him.
Then later—God, the later part—his hands on my hips, his voice in my ear, his cock splitting me open while I moaned like a bitch in heat and came in my wife’s pink satin panties without a single touch to my own worthless little dick.
The chastity cage was still locked around me. I could feel its weight, its cold metal bite against my skin. The key hung around my wife’s neck where it always hung, a silver pendant of absolute control.
I groaned and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, but the memories kept coming. My mother-in-law’s face in the doorway. My sister-in-law’s wide-eyed stare. The wet, rhythmic slap of Desean’s balls against my ass as he plowed into me, grunting words that stripped away every last pretense of masculinity I’d ever possessed.
That’s it, sissy. Take that big black cock. Your wife’s pussy was too good for that little nub of yours, wasn’t it? You were made for this and made to be used.
And I had moaned. I had thanked him. I had begged for more.
The laughter downstairs rose again, and this time I caught a few words: my name, followed by something that made all three of them shriek with delight. I couldn’t make out the full sentence, but I didn’t need to. I knew exactly what they were talking about.
—
I must have fallen back asleep, because the next thing I knew, my wife was standing in the bedroom doorway with a cup of coffee in her hand and a smile on her face that I’d come to recognize as trouble.
“Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” she said, crossing the room to set the mug on the nightstand. She was wearing one of my t-shirts—an old, faded thing that hung loose on her frame—and nothing else. Her thighs were still marked with faint red handprints from the night before. “How are you feeling?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but my voice came out as a croak. “Like I got fucked by a train.”
She laughed, bright and genuine, and sat on the edge of the bed. Her hand found my thigh through the sheets, squeezed gently. “Close enough. Desean’s about the size of a freight train, isn’t he?”
I felt my face flush. “Is he… is he still here?”
“No, he left early this morning. Had to drive back to the city.” She paused, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my leg. “But he said he had a great time. And he’s definitely coming back next weekend.”
Next weekend.
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. I thought about what that meant. About what I would be doing next weekend. About the fact that my body was already responding to the thought, my caged cock twitching uselessly against its metal confines.
“Your mom and your sister are still here,” I said, because it was the only thing I could think to say.
“Obviously. They wanted to stay for brunch.” She grinned. “They have so many questions for you.”
—
Brunch was a special kind of hell.
We sat at the kitchen table—me in a pair of loose sweatpants and a t-shirt, my wife in that same oversized tee, her mother and sister dressed as they’d just come from brunch at a country club. There were pastries on the table, fresh fruit, a pitcher of mimosas that my mother-in-law kept refilling with alarming frequency. It all looked so normal. So mundane.
Except that every single person at that table had watched me get fucked in the ass less than twelve hours ago.
My mother-in-law—a handsome woman in her mid-fifties with silver-streaked hair and the same sharp eyes as her daughter—was the first to break the ice. She took a delicate bite of her croissant, chewed slowly, swallowed, and then fixed me with a look that made my balls try to retreat into my body.
“So,” she said, her voice perfectly pleasant. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting quite so much… entertainment last night.”
My sister-in-law snorted into her mimosa. She was younger than my wife, mid-twenties, with a mischievous streak that had always made me slightly nervous. “That’s one word for it.”
I stared at my plate, willing the floor to open up and swallow me whole. It didn’t.
“Mom,” my wife said, but there was no real reproach in her tone. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice,” her mother protested. “I’m just making conversation. And besides, it’s not every day you get to see your daughter’s husband take an eleven-and-a-half-inch cock up the—”
“Mom.”
The word came out sharper this time, and her mother held up her hands in mock surrender. But she was still smiling, her eyes glittering with amusement.
“I’m just saying,” she continued, “that Desean is a very impressive young man. Very… gifted.”
My sister-in-law set down her glass and leaned forward, her expression one of genuine curiosity. “How long has this been going on?” she asked, looking from my wife to me and back again. “Like, is this a regular thing? The chastity cage, the cuckolding, the whole… thing?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but my wife beat me to it.
“It started about six months ago,” she said, and there was no hesitation in her voice, no embarrassment. She spoke with the easy confidence of a woman who had nothing to hide. “I’d caught him looking at SPH porn—small penis humiliation—and at first I was confused. Then I was curious. And then I realized it was actually kind of… hot.”
I felt my face burning. “Do we have to talk about this?”
“Yes,” all three women said in unison, then laughed.
“The cage came first,” my wife continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “He was so eager to try it. I thought it would be a fun little experiment, you know? A week, maybe two. But he took to it so well that I started to wonder what else he’d be into. And then I remembered the SPH stuff.” She smiled, her eyes meeting mine across the table. “And I realized I’d been wasting a lot of time trying to pretend he was something he’s not.”
“What do you mean?” her sister asked, leaning forward eagerly.
“I mean,” my wife said, “that my husband has a very small penis. Like, very small. Barely three inches hard. And the sooner he accepted that, the sooner we could both start having the sex life we actually wanted.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut. I’d heard her say similar things before, in the privacy of our bedroom, whispered in my ear while she stroked me or teased me or pressed a vibrator against my cage. But hearing it here, at the breakfast table, in front of her mother and sister—it was something else entirely.
My mother-in-law tilted her head, studying me with an appraising eye. “Is that true?” she asked, and I realized she was talking to me, not my wife.
“I… I mean…”
“He’s shy,” my wife said, patting my hand. “It’s cute. But yes, it’s true. He’s got a tiny little thing. Barely a nub. And he knows exactly what it’s good for.”
“What’s it good for?” her sister asked, her voice breathless with anticipation.
My wife smiled, slow and wicked. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s good for nothing. That’s the whole point.”
The three of them laughed again, and I sat there, my face burning, my heart pounding, my caged cock straining uselessly against its metal prison. I should have been mortified. I was mortified. But there was something else there too, something hot and shameful that coiled low in my belly and made my breath come short.
“I don’t understand,” my mother-in-law said, reaching for another croissant. “If he’s that small, why did you marry him? Not to be crude, but didn’t you want… you know… a real man?”
My wife shrugged, completely unbothered. “I thought I did. That’s what I’d had before—real men with real cocks. My ex was huge. Like, genuinely huge. Ten inches at least, maybe more. Thick as a soda can.” She paused, letting that sink in. “And you know what? It was fine. The sex was good. But something was missing.”
“What?” her sister asked.
“Power,” my wife said simply. “Control. With my ex, I was always the one being fucked. He was in charge, you know? He’d bend me over and take what he wanted, and I’d just… let him. It was good, but it wasn’t mine.”
She turned to look at me, and her expression softened into something almost tender. “But with this one… with my husband… I get everything. I get to be the one in charge. I get to decide when he comes, when he gets to be unlocked, when he gets to touch himself. I get to watch him squirm and beg and humiliate himself for my amusement. And now, with Desean…” She smiled again. “Now I get the best of both worlds.”
Her mother let out a low whistle. “Damn, honey. You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”
“I really do,” my wife said, and there was genuine satisfaction in her voice.
The conversation continued in that vein for another hour, and with every passing minute, I felt myself sinking deeper into a haze of humiliation and arousal. They talked about me like I wasn’t even there. They speculated about my size, asked my wife detailed questions about our sex life, debated the merits of circumcision and size queens and whether I could even satisfy a woman with my “little nub.”
Have you ever measured it? Her sister wanted to know.
Three inches on a good day, my wife replied. But usually closer to two and a half. And it’s thick, but not in a good way. Kind of stubby.
Does it get hard on its own? Her mother asked.
Oh yes, my wife said. That’s the funny part. It gets so hard when he’s humiliated. It practically throbs. But it’s still tiny like a baby’s thumb.
Can he even penetrate you?
Briefly, my wife said, and her tone made it clear exactly how unsatisfying she found it. But it’s so small I can barely feel it. And he comes in like thirty seconds, so there’s really no point.
And the cage? Her sister prompted. Does that hurt?
‘He loves it,’ my wife said with a shrug. ‘He says it makes him feel owned. Controlled. Which is exactly what he needs, because he’s too pathetic to control himself anyway.’
—
By the time brunch was over, I was sweating through my t-shirt, and my sweatpants were soaked with pre-cum that had leaked steadily from my caged cock. I excused myself as soon as I could, retreating to the bathroom where I leaned against the cool tile and tried to catch my breath.
The door opened without a knock.
My sister-in-law stood in the doorway, a smirk on her face that made her look so much like her sister it was almost uncanny. “Hey,” she said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “Mind if I join you?”
I stared at her, my heart hammering in my chest. “What are you doing?”
She shrugged, leaning against the sink. “Just curious about something.”
“About what?”
“That cage,” she said, her eyes dropping pointedly to my crotch. “I want to see it.”
My breath caught in my throat. “I… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Probably not,” she agreed. “But I want to see it anyway. My sister’s been telling me about it for months, and after last night…” She trailed off, her smirk widening. “Come on. Show me.”
I should have said no. I should have told her to get out, to leave me alone, to respect the little dignity I had left. But my body was moving before my brain could catch up, my hands hooking into the waistband of my sweatpants and pushing them down to my thighs.
The metal cage was small—so small that it barely contained my soft cock. The base ring pressed into my flesh, the bars pressed against my skin, and through the gaps I could see the flushed, pink head, still slick with pre-cum.
My sister-in-law let out a low whistle. “Wow,” she said, and the word was heavy with amusement. “My sister wasn’t exaggerating. That thing is tiny.”
I felt my face flame even hotter. “It’s, um, it’s not usually this—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “Don’t make excuses. It’s embarrassing. And honestly? It’s kind of hilarious.”
She reached out and, before I could stop her, flicked the cage with her finger. The metal rattled, and I gasped at the sudden, sharp jolt of sensation that shot through me.
“So this is what you’re working with,” she said, almost to herself. “No wonder she wanted Desean to fuck her. You can’t even satisfy a woman with this, can you?”
I shook my head, unable to form words.
“And the ass thing,” she continued, her voice thoughtful. “That’s really what you’re good for, isn’t it? Taking it. Getting used. Being a good little hole for a real man.”
I groaned, my hips jerking involuntarily. More pre-cum leaked from the tip of my trapped cock.
She laughed, bright and unkind. “God, you’re so fucked up. But I get it now. I really do.” She reached up, and her fingers brushed against the key that hung around my neck—the spare key, the one my wife had given me with strict instructions to wear it at all times as a reminder of what I was. “You need this,” she said softly. “You need someone to make you understand what a pathetic little thing you are.”
“Yes,” I whispered, and the word came out as a moan.
She pulled her hand back, her smirk returning. “Well, don’t worry,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I won’t tell anyone. Well… no one who doesn’t already know, anyway.”
And then she was gone, leaving me alone in the bathroom with my shame and my arousal and my caged, throbbing little cock.
—
The rest of the day was a blur.
I remember that my wife and her family spent the afternoon in the living room, drinking more mimosas and talking. I remember the low, intimate murmur of their voices from the other room, punctuated by occasional explosions of laughter. I remember sitting in the bedroom, ordered to wait until someone needed me, listening to their amusement and wondering what they were saying about me now.
My wife came upstairs around dinnertime, a glass of wine in her hand and a satisfied smile on her face.
“Good news,” she said, settling onto the bed beside me. “Desean’s coming back next weekend. And he wants to bring a friend.”
I stared at her, my throat dry. “A friend?”
“Mmm-hmm. Another guy. Big, like him. Both of them, actually.” She took a sip of her wine, her eyes gleaming. “They want to run a train on me.”
Run a train. The phrase echoed in my head, making no sense, even as my body responded with immediate, humiliating arousal.
‘But that’s not all,’ she continued. ‘They want you there. Both of them want to fuck you, too. Take turns with you. See how much of their cum you can take before you can’t take any more.’
I swallowed hard. ‘And… and what do you think?’
She leaned over, pressing the key that hung around her neck against my lips. The metal was warm from her skin. ‘I think,’ she said softly, ‘that it’s going to be a very long, very educational weekend for you.’
I looked up at her, my eyes burning with a shameful mixture of fear and desperate, aching need. And even though I knew I should say no, even though every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to stop this before it went too far—instead, I heard myself say, ‘I’ll do it. Whatever you want. I’ll do it.’
She smiled, slow and satisfied. ‘I know you will,’ she said. ‘That’s why I married you.’
Then she drew back, stood up off the bed, and moved toward the door.
“Get some rest,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”
The End.
