Wife Taps into Humiliation
A Fictional Story by Butcher2025.
She was a bigger woman, heavier than she wanted to be. Pretty in the face with her makeup skills, but the kids had done a number on her body—Five-foot-eight, pushing 180 pounds. Tim had adjusted to his dad body years ago as well. She carried it in her breasts and ass, which he always pointed out was a good thing. Even with his stamp of approval, something in her wanted to feel small in bed. She wanted him to be the dominant one. But the book had her thinking. Maybe we could try something new. I can act my way through it.
She’d also been turning over the podcast she’d heard on the drive home. Two women laughing about the things men never admitted they wanted to hear. Tell him he’s small. Watch what happens. It ran counter to every compliment she’d ever given. You’re so big. You feel amazing. I love your cock. That was the script. But the podcast had planted something, and the novel had watered it.
Tonight, she felt saucy.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey yourself.”
“Put the phone down.”
Tim’s eyebrow twitched. He set the phone on the nightstand. Melissa shifted onto her side, letting the sheet fall away. Her nightgown hung loosely, but the way she moved it off her shoulder was deliberate. Her breasts, heavy and full, strained the silk.
Her hand found his thigh. “I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she slid down the mattress, and Tim’s breath caught when her fingers hooked his waistband. A blowjob wasn’t part of their predictable rotation. But here she was, tugging his boxers down, and he was already hardening before she touched him.
“Melissa–”
“Shh.”
She took him in her mouth. Warm and wet and unhurried. His head fell back against the pillow. Her tongue traced the underside, a slow, curious stroke, and her hand wrapped the base, fingers touching–he was average, she’d always thought, nothing noteworthy either direction—just Tim.
Then she stopped.
Pulled back and studied him. He was always someone who could take a joke, so she thought he would be at least open to what she was about to say.
“What?” His voice was thick.
“Nothing.” But she was still staring, her head tilted, fingers repositioning. She held her thumb and forefinger apart, measuring. Moved them wider. Narrowed them again. A little frown creased her forehead.
“What are you doing?”
“I said nothing. Hold on.”
She reached over him to the nightstand drawer–her breast brushed his chest, a deliberate graze–and came back with the small tailor’s tape measure she kept for online shopping returns—yellow, flexible, cheap plastic.
“I want to try something,” she said, unspooling the tape. “But first, I need you to agree to something.”
His brow furrowed. “Agree to what?”
“A safeword. If things get too intense or you want to stop, you say the word, and everything stops immediately. No questions asked.”
He blinked at her, half-hard and confused. “A safeword.”
“Yes.” She met his eyes, held them. “Our honeymoon destination. Say it.”
“Cancun?”
“That’s the word. Cancun. You say that, and I stop whatever I’m doing. Do you understand?”
A slow nod. His cock twitched against her palm.
“I understand. Cancun stops everything.” His voice had gone rougher.
A pulse of heat went through her. “Good.” This was so against her personality type, but she felt like the role play would be fun.
She laid the tape alongside him. Her lips pursed. “Hmm.” She let the tape curl away and held her fingers up instead, marking a length. “Now, I read an article recently about penis size. The average erect penis is apparently six inches long and five inches around.”
She knew it was smaller than that. She’d looked it up after the podcast. But Tim didn’t need to know that.
“Hold still.”
“Are you actually–”
“Tim. I’m measuring.”
He fell silent. The tape measure whispered against his skin.
“Length…” She squinted, made a show of reading it. “5 1/2 inches.”
“That’s–”
“Hush.” She wrapped the tape around his shaft. “And girth… 4 1/2 inches around.” She let the numbers speak for themselves; she knew she was being a little stingy, then set the tape aside and held her hands apart. “So compared to average, you’re a half inch short in length and a half inch thinner in girth.”
“That can’t be right. I’m bigger than that, and the average isn’t–”
“I said don’t protest.” Her voice sharpened. His mouth closed. “The numbers don’t lie, honey.”
His cock twitched again. Visibly. Against her palm.
Melissa’s pulse jumped. Oh my god. The podcast women had been right.
She tilted her head, letting a thoughtful expression settle onto her face. “You know, I’ve only been with two other men before you. Harry, in college. And Kurt, right after graduation.” Her fingers drifted along his length, barely touching. “Harry was…” She held her hands apart, marking maybe six and a half inches of air between her palms. “About here. Nice and thick, too. I remember my fingers barely could close around him.”
Tim made a sound she’d never heard before–a stifled exhale, a swallowed groan.
“And Kurt.” Her hands moved wider. Nearly seven inches. “He was longer. Not quite as thick as Harry, but still substantial. I’d say maybe 5 1/2 inches around.” She knew she was exaggerating a bit, but looked down at Tim’s erection, then back at her phantom measurements. “So compared to what I’ve experienced… well. You can see the difference.”
His breathing had gone shallow. His erection hadn’t gone down- if anything, it was harder, the tip slick with something she hadn’t expected to see so soon.
“Wait,” she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “I saw something online. Hold on.”
The bathroom was three steps away. She returned with an empty toilet paper roll.
“What’s that for?”
“A test.” She sat beside him on the bed. “I read that if a man can’t fill a toilet paper roll, it means–well.” She let the sentence hang. “Let’s find out.”
She positioned the roll at the tip of his erection. The cardboard circumference was generous enough–but as she slid it down, it passed over him with a little room to spare.
“Oh, honey.”
His hips jerked. The roll slipped all the way to the base without resistance.
“It’s not even touching the sides,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Harry wouldn’t have been able to even get his head through this. Kurt would have stretched it and stuck out the end.” She twisted the roll gently, demonstrating the gap. “But you just slide right through.”
“Melissa–”
“Does that embarrass you?” She looked up at him, eyes wide with mock innocence. “Knowing that my ex-boyfriends were so much bigger?” She let the roll fall away.
His answer was barely audible. “Yes.”
“And does it turn you on? Being compared to men who were more than you’ll ever be?”
A full-body shudder. His cock leaked a clear bead onto his stomach.
“I asked you a question, Tim.”
“Yes.” The word sounded punched out of him. “Yes, it turns me on.”
“Good.” She smiled, and it wasn’t her usual smile–something sharper lived in it now. “Because I think we’ve discovered something about you tonight.”
She reached for the tape measure again, letting it dangle from her fingers.
“The average man is six inches long and five around. You’re not that. You’re not even close to either of the only other men I’ve been with.” She let the tape pool on his stomach. “And instead of being upset about it, you’re harder than I’ve seen you in years.”
Tim’s chest rose and fell. His eyes were fixed on her, dark and stunned and hungry.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Melissa said, swinging her leg over his chest. She knew he was going to love what came next. “You always say that you like my big ass, so I’m going to sit on your face. And you’re going to show me that your mouth can do what your cock can’t. Understood?” She knew he always wanted this face-sitting position, but she was always so self-conscious about her size.
“Understood.”
“Understood, what?”
A hesitation. Then: “Understood. My mouth can do what my cock can’t.”
“Say it all.”
“I have a small penis. Harry and Kurt were both bigger. And my mouth is going to make up for it.”
The words came out rushed and raw, and Melissa felt something unlock in her chest.
“Good boy.”
She lowered herself onto his face–something she’d always deflected. But tonight was different.
His tongue found her immediately.
“That’s it,” she breathed, bracing her hands on the headboard. Her hips rolled. His groan vibrated through her. “Your tongue knows what to do.”
Her thighs tightened. She’d spent two decades keeping her weight forward during sex, never fully letting go. Now she let her hips settle. Let gravity do what gravity wanted.
His hands found her ass, gripping the flesh. His fingers couldn’t span even half of each cheek, and he squeezed like he was drowning.
“Five inches,” she murmured, grinding down. “Four inches around. Why did I settle for that?”
His tongue stopped. His whole body seized–then redoubled its efforts, more urgent, more desperate.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “You’re earning your keep.” Smirking at the absurdity of her comment, but she had to admit this was more fun than she’d expected.
Her climax built from somewhere deep–deeper than any orgasm she’d had in a decade. It rolled up through her belly, her chest, her throat, and when it hit, it knocked a sound out of her that wasn’t a moan or a scream but something raw and new. Her thighs clamped. Her hands fisted the sheets. She came against his mouth in long, rolling waves.
When she finally lifted herself off him and collapsed beside him on the mattress, her heart was hammering.
She rolled onto her side, propped her head on her hand, and looked at him. His chest was heaving. His stomach was slick. His eyes were wide and stunned.
“So,” she said, letting her smile curl at the edges. “Was that what you wanted?”
Tim nodded, breathless. “You just turned into Catwoman. What a surprise.”
Melissa laughed–a genuine one, warm and pleased. Then her eyes drifted down to his erection, still straining, still leaking.
Her smile sharpened.
“Are you actually precumming? You haven’t done that in a decade!”
He hung his head in mock shame.
“Tim, you didn’t say the safeword………….are you good if I push it further next time?”
“Yes!”
Melissa swallowed him and brought him to completion in less than a minute. She sat there thinking, how did I never know this about him? What a weird kink she thought, but she was excited about what would come next.
*************************
The next evening, Melissa found herself alone with her laptop.
She’d started with a simple search: “wife humiliates husband small penis.” Just typing it made her cheeks flush like ordering something embarrassing online even though no one was watching. The results were staggering.
A Reddit thread with thousands of women called Cleopatra’s Secrets.
Her cursor hovered. She clicked.
For the next two hours, Melissa fell down a rabbit hole so deep she forgot to blink. There were terms she’d never heard before–cuckolding, sph, pegging, chastity cages, golden showers. Some of it made her recoil. A post about making a husband wear a diaper nearly made her close the laptop entirely. Absolutely not. No. Never. She scrolled past quickly, heart thumping.
But other posts stopped her cold.
One woman described measuring her husband every month and marking it on a growth chart, as parents did with children, except the chart never moved. Another detailed making her husband kneel in the corner while she used a vibrator on herself, not letting him touch. A third described something called a “penis sleeve”–a silicone extension that fit over the man and made him bigger. The comments were full of women describing their husbands’ reactions. He came so fast the first time I made him wear it. He said it was the most humiliating thing I’d ever done. Now he begs for it.
Melissa sat back. She was somewhere between fascinated and appalled, but she was also wet.
Okay. Let’s make a list.
She found a spare notebook — the one she’d bought for meal planning and never used — and started writing. Not the extreme stuff. But the sleeve, she wrote that down. The monthly measuring. Making him repeat affirmations about his size and naming his penis something diminutive and using a vibrator while he watched. She jotted it all in her neat accountant’s handwriting.
His birthday is next month, she wrote at the bottom of the page. If he wants this, I’ll lean into it. She had to admit to herself she got more into the acting of the roleplay and had fun doing it, seeing the enjoyment he got out of it. And honestly, that was the best oral she’d ever received.
She closed the notebook, shut the laptop, and sat in the dark living room. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant sound of Tim snoring. Something had shifted. She wasn’t a dominatrix. She was a forty-something woman with a spreadsheet addiction and a tendency to cry at movies. But she had power now. She’d felt it. And she wanted more.
******************************
Three nights passed before they tried again.
Tim was different — she could sense his excitement. On Tuesday he’d asked, casually, if she’d read anything interesting lately. Melissa had smiled over her coffee and said, “Oh, I’ve been doing some research.” Nothing more. His ears had gone pink.
Thursday night, she simply said, “Bedroom,” and he went.
The script was similar. She had him undress first, then she undressed while he watched, letting her bra straps slide slow. Her body hadn’t changed in three days, but the way she moved it had. Shoulders back. Chin up. The weight that had always been an apology was now, here, an asset.
“On your back,” she said.
He complied. Already hard. Already leaking.
“Look at that,” she murmured, settling beside him, not touching yet. “You’re ready before I’ve even done anything. Did you think about this all day? About what I might say?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you thought about.”
His throat bobbed. “About you comparing me. About the tape measure. About–” He stopped.
“About what?”
“Harry and Kurt.” She let the names hang. “You’ve been thinking about my ex-boyfriends? Men you’ve never met?” She giggled, shaking her head.
“Yes.”
“And what were they doing? In your head?”
“Fucking you.” His hips lifted slightly off the mattress, seeking friction. “Fucking you with their bigger…”
“Aww.” Melissa tilted her head. “I think about them as well.” Even though she didn’t.
“I want you to sit on my face again.”
“I know you do.” She swung her leg over him, but paused. “First, I want to try something.”
She positioned herself differently this time–not fully on his face, but higher, so that if she leaned forward, she’d be in a sixty-nine. She braced her hands on the mattress on either side of his hips. Her mouth hovered near his erection. Her sex hovered near his chin.
“A sixty-nine,” she said. “Almost.”
His tongue found her. The angle was awkward for him, neck straining, but he didn’t complain. Melissa made a show of lowering her head–then stopped. Her lips were an inch from his tip. She exhaled, deliberately, warm breath across his wet skin.
“That’s it,” she breathed. “Earn it.”
His tongue worked faster. Her hips rolled in small, instinctive circles. She kept her mouth just there, never touching, just breathing, just letting him feel the almost of it.
His hands found her thighs. Grip desperate. His mouth was everywhere now, messy and earnest.
“You know what I read? That some men can’t please a woman with their penis at all. That they have to rely entirely on their mouths. Their fingers. Toys.” Another pause. Another exhale against his tip. “I guess you’re one of those men now.”
His whole body went rigid.
Then a sound–strangled, guttural–and warmth splashed against her chin.
Melissa jerked back. Looked down. His erection pulsed, untouched, spilling onto his stomach in thin white ropes. She hadn’t put a single finger on him and hadn’t even closed the distance with her mouth.
“Oh, my god.” The words escaped before she could filter them–genuine surprise, genuine delight. She scrambled off him, kneeling beside him on the mattress, staring. “Tim. Tim. You just–I didn’t even–”
His face was crimson. His chest heaved. He looked mortified and exultant all at once.
“I’m sorry,” he managed.
“Sorry?” She laughed–not cruel, but amazed. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, staring at the evidence. “I did that. With words. With just words.”
“You did.”
“Tim, do you understand what this means?” She was grinning now, the notebook forgotten, the Reddit posts forgotten, just this moment, this power humming through her like electricity. “I barely even had to touch you. I could say anything and you’d–” She gestured at the mess on his stomach. “Wow.”
He said nothing. Just breathed.
Melissa composed herself. Adjusted her posture and remembered the list.
“Well,” she said, letting her voice drop back into that measured, mock-thoughtful tone. “Now that you’ve made a mess of yourself without permission, I think we need to discuss next time.”
“Next time?”
“You didn’t say Cancun.” She raised an eyebrow. “Did you want to?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I ordered something. A sleeve. Silicone and lifelike. It goes over you. Makes you quite a bit bigger.” She watched his face. “Bigger than Harry and Kurt.”
His spent cock twitched. Actually twitched.
“The idea is that you’d wear it. And fuck me with it. And we’d both pretend–” She paused, choosing her words. “We’d both pretend you were finally adequate.”
“Melissa–”
“Unless you want to stop.”
Silence. His eyes were dark, glassy.
“That’s what I thought.” She reached over and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, handing it to him. “Clean yourself up. And start thinking about what you’re going to say when I make you put it on.”
She settled back against her pillow, still damp between her thighs, still unsatisfied but somehow more satisfied than she’d been in years.
“Oh, and Tim?”
He looked up from wiping his stomach.
“Have you ever thought about a strap-on? For me to wear?” She let the question float there, casual as asking about the weather. “Something to consider. For your birthday, maybe.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
She turned off the lamp before he could answer.
**********************************************
The package arrived on a Tuesday. Plain brown box, discreet label — Melissa opened it in the kitchen while Tim hovered. She pulled out the silicone sleeve, translucent and thick, impossibly long and girthy. Eight inches. Six around. It looked like a prop from a movie she’d never admit to watching.
“Good lord,” she breathed, turning it over. “This is… bigger than Harry. Bigger than Kurt.” She held it up next to Tim’s face, inches from his nose. “Don’t I deserve a big dick like this? Tell me.” She was actually nervous about the size.
His jaw worked. “Yes.”
“Yes what?” She kept her voice light, almost sing-song.
“Yes, you deserve a big dick like that.”
“Good.” She set the sleeve on the nightstand and pushed him toward the bed. “Get undressed.”
Moments later, he lay on his back, already hard, already leaking. She knelt beside him, the sleeve warming in her palm. But first–she traced her fingers down his shaft, over his balls, and cupped them gently.
“Something I’ve been wanting to try,” she murmured. “Is this okay?”
He nodded, breath shallow.
A gentle squeeze. His body tensed but no safeword. She squeezed a little firmer, watching his face. The pink flush crept up his chest. She squeezed harder still, and a thrill of fear shot through her–what if she hurt him?–but his hips bucked. His mouth fell open. No sound.
“Answer me when I ask you something,” she said, squeezing tighter. “Do you like this?”
Silence. Not even a grunt. The head of his cock glistened, his balls drawn tight in her grip. Something cold flickered in her stomach. She squeezed harder.
“Cancun.”
The word dropped like a coin. Melissa’s hand flew open, releasing him. Her heart hammered. “Tim–”
“I’m okay,” he panted. “Just–too much.”
She exhaled, a smirk tugging at her lip. “Geesh, honey. You’re taking this further than I am, I think.”
He laughed weakly, rubbing himself. “Maybe.”
She picked up the sleeve, slicked it with lube, and rolled it onto him–his own cock disappearing inside a hollow eight-inch monster that now jutted from his hips. She straddled him, positioning the thick silicone tip at her entrance.
“Look at you,” she whispered. “Finally adequate.”
She sank down.
The stretch knocked the air out of her. Not Tim’s usual nudge, but a full, insistent filling that made her thighs shake before she’d even settled. She rose and fell, riding him, and the silicone dragged against places inside her that had never been touched. Her first orgasm hit within a minute–a sharp, spilling contraction that made her cry out. She kept moving, grinding down, and a second one coiled through her belly before her breathing steadied.
Tim’s hands gripped her hips. “You like that, don’t you? Harry could never make you come like this. Kurt couldn’t either. Only this big cock can.” His voice had shifted, deeper, almost mocking.
Melissa blinked through the haze of sensation. He was playing a part — someone else. “Tell me your husband’s pathetic little dick could never fuck you like this. Say it.”
“I–” Her rhythm faltered. He was trying to get her to degrade him, and here she was, chasing her own pleasure, barely holding onto her dominatrix persona.
“Say it,” he pressed. “Say you need a real man’s cock.”
She slammed down hard, gasping. “So full….so much better.”
A beat of silence. Then he thrust up into her, the sleeve driving deeper, and her eyes rolled back. In that instant, he knew–he felt her body convulse around the silicone, not around him, not around anything he was naturally. Bigger was better. The thought should have stung, but instead it poured hot through his veins.
She came a third time, gushing around the intrusion, and collapsed onto his chest, trembling.
Afterward, she lay beside him, limbs loose, hair plastered to her forehead. The sleeve lay discarded on the towel. She couldn’t form words. Her brain was static.
“Honey,” Tim whispered, “you’ve never orgasmed like that.”
She managed a breathy, “Yes, that was good.” The dominatrix was gone. She was just Melissa, fucked senseless. “Really good.”
His eyes widened, then crinkled with pleasure. “God, I can’t imagine what you have planned for my birthday.”
She smiled, but didn’t answer.
Later that night, Tim slept beside her, and Melissa was back on Reddit, laptop balanced on her thighs. The sleeve had been perfect–for her. For him, the humiliation was the point. But he expected more. He’d loved the ball-squeezing, even if it pushed too far. She scrolled past the diaper posts, past the extreme watersports, and landed on a thread she’d closed before: chastity cages. A small plastic or metal device that locked around the penis, preventing erections entirely. The woman held the key. The man couldn’t touch himself without permission. One poster described locking her husband for a full week before his birthday, doling out edges and teases, then finally releasing him for a ruined orgasm. That seemed extreme. Another described marking her territory–urinating on his penis while he wore the cage, claiming him in a way that thrilled her.
Melissa bit her lip. The image unsettled her. It also made her thighs press together. She bookmarked the post.
Two days before his birthday, she presented the cage. A clear plastic tube with a metal lock. Tim stared at it in her palm, then up at her face, then back at the cage. “You’re serious.”
“Cancun….No,” she said. “Put it on.”
He did. The soft click of the lock felt monumental. She wore the key on a chain around her neck.
The next forty-eight hours were a simmer. She caught him adjusting himself constantly, wincing. Once, she bent over in a low-cut top and watched him strain, the cage holding him flaccid and trapped. He whimpered. She’d never seen anything so arousing.
On the morning of his birthday, she woke him with a cup of coffee and a whispered, “Tonight, honey. I think you want me to take this to the next level. Say the word, and I stop–but this will be up another level.”
He looked like a dog in heat. “Yes. Please.”
That evening, she had him naked on the bed, the cage still in place. She straddled his chest, facing him. “Since you like my ass so much…” She paused. “Have you heard of rimming?”
He shook his head, confusion flickering.
“You’re going to eat my ass tonight. Not my pussy. Your mouth is going to serve the part of me that deserves worship.” She watched his face closely. “Do you have a problem with that?”
A flicker of something–revulsion?–crossed his features. He’d never done that before; the idea obviously unnerved him.
Melissa softened her voice. “I just took a shower. I’m extra clean, okay? If it’s too much, that’s fine. We can do something else.”
He swallowed. “No. I want to.”
She turned around, settled onto his face facing his feet, and lowered herself. The first touch of his tongue against that forbidden place made her gasp. Tentative, then bolder. The sensation was foreign and electric–shamelessly good. Her hips rocked. His stubble brushed her cheeks.
While he worked, she leaned forward, reached between his legs, and found the tiny lock. With a twist of the key, the cage clicked open. His erection sprang free, painfully hard, red and wet at the tip. She wrapped her hand around it gently.
“Good boy,” she breathed. “Don’t stop.”
She adjusted her pussy further back, and he continued eating her out in the normal fashion, and she blew him at the same time, making his raging erection cum in 30 seconds, as his legs convulsed under him. She felt a pang of guilt having locked him up, but again, he never said the word.
She rolled off of him and flipped a switch to her natural self. “Happy Birthday, Sweetie. I hope that wasn’t a disappointment?”
“I still can’t believe you are my wife of 20 years. Are you actually enjoying this?”
“At first, I thought it would just be a role playing with my dark side, but I honestly love the fact that you are enjoying it so much…….you are actually challenging me to up the ante each time.”
“I’m looking forward to what you come up with next.”
*****
The break wasn’t something Melissa planned. It just happened.
After Tim’s birthday, she woke up the next morning with the chastity cage key still on its chain around her neck. She’d performed. She’d performed well. But the energy it required, especially in coming up with new ideas, was unsustainable.
Over coffee, Tim touched her wrist. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She wrapped her fingers around the mug. “Just… I think I need a break. From the humiliation and role-play stuff.”
“Of course.” No hesitation. No disappointment she could detect. “Whatever you need.”
She handed him the key. “Put that away; we will come back to it, I’m sure, but I want just you for awhile.”
That was the thing about Tim. He’d spent twenty years being exactly this–attentive, patient, never pushing. The kink had been a fun discovery. He’d simply followed where she led.
So they paused.
And something unexpected happened: they started having more sex. Not the elaborate, scripted, safeword-protected encounters of the previous weeks, but the old kind. The familiar kind. Twice a week. Sometimes three times. More than they’d managed in years.
Melissa came every time. Tim had always been an attentive lover–his mouth, his fingers, the steady rhythm of his hips that knew her body’s map better than she did. She’d forgotten that, somehow, in the rush of newness. The baseline had been good. It had always been good.
But.
The charge wasn’t there.
She noticed it first during a perfectly adequate Thursday night. Tim was above her, moving inside her, his breath warm against her neck. Her eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling. Her body responded–the familiar climb, the release–but her mind wandered. To the tape measure. To the sleeve. To the way his voice had cracked when he said, I have a small penis.
She orgasmed as did he, but it wasn’t the wild newness of the month before.
Afterward, Tim rolled onto his side, and she stared at the dark ceiling and wondered if he felt it too. A month passed this way. Pleasant. Functional. Twice as frequent as before. Half as electric.
Then, on a Wednesday evening, Tim set his phone down and said, “Can we use the sleeve tonight?”
Melissa looked up from her book–another dark romance. His voice had that tentative quality she recognized. Testing the waters.
A warmth bloomed low in her belly.
“Yeah,” she said. “But I want you first, okay?”
His smile was small and real. “Okay.”
What followed was the kind of sex they’d been having for a month. Careful. Considerate. His mouth between her legs, patient and practiced. Her fingers in his hair. The familiar climb.
“You’re very wet,” he murmured against her thigh.
“Mm.”
“Is it because you’re thinking about Big Tim?”
Melissa’s hips stuttered. Her breath caught somewhere in her throat. He’d never called the sleeve that before. The absurdity of it–the toy with a proper name, like a third person in their bed–should have made her laugh.
Instead, heat rushed through her.
“Maybe,” she managed.
“Tell me.”
The room shifted. The air thickened. There it was–the charge, humming under the surface, waiting.
“Show me what you got, Big Tim,” she said, and her voice came out lower than she intended.
He reached for the nightstand drawer.
The sleeve gleamed in the lamplight, still ridiculous and obscene. Eight inches. Six around. He rolled it onto himself with practiced ease, and when he positioned himself between her thighs, Melissa was already slick–not just from his mouth, but from the anticipation crackling along her skin.
The first push stole her breath.
Always did.
This wasn’t Tim. This was something else entirely, something that filled her in places she forgot existed, something that made her arch off the mattress and grip the sheets and make sounds she never made otherwise. Her eyes fluttered shut. The silicone dragged against her inner walls, thick and unyielding, and the stretch bordered on too much–then crossed over into more, more, more.
“Oh god,” she breathed.
His hips found a rhythm. Her legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his lower back. The world narrowed to the place where they joined.
“Does that feel better than your husband?”
The words cut through the fog. Melissa’s eyes snapped open.
Tim was looking down at her, his face flushed, his jaw tight. Not her Tim — the other one, the one who played a role now. His eyes were dark with something between hunger and desperation.
She stared at him.
“You can say it,” he pressed, still thrusting, still driving that impossible thickness into her. “You can say it, Melissa.”
She knew what he wanted, what he needed. The game, reignited.
A long beat of silence. Then:
“Yes.” The word escaped on a moan as he hit a depth that made her vision spark. “Yes, it feels better. So much fuller. So much bigger. God, Tim–”
Her climax hit without warning. No gentle build, no polite climb. Just a detonation that arched her spine and locked her thighs and ripped a cry from somewhere primal. She clenched around the silicone, pulsing, waves of heat radiating outward through her limbs.
Through the haze, she felt Tim shudder. Felt the subtle pulse of him coming inside the sleeve–his own pleasure, secondary to hers, triggered by hers.
That was what undid her further. Not the size. Not the stretch. The knowledge that her pleasure had brought him to his own, regardless of the method. That he could come from watching her be filled by something he wasn’t.
She lay there afterward, the sleeve still inside her, her chest heaving. Tim collapsed beside her, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
In the weeks that followed, Melissa found herself back on Reddit.
Not with the compulsive hunger of before. The game was reignited, yes, but it had matured. A low flame instead of a wildfire. She browsed while Tim snored beside her, the laptop screen painting her face blue-white in the dark.
She’d bookmarked dozens of posts over the past months. Now she sorted them methodically, her accountant’s brain cataloging and categorizing.
Cuckolding. The word still made her pause. The posts were staggering in number–thousands of women, and men pretending to be women probably, describing bringing another man into their beds while their husbands watched. Some described the husband waiting in the next room, listening. Others had the husband present, kneeling in a corner, forbidden to touch himself.
No.
She’d told Tim no on threesomes for two decades. That boundary wasn’t shifting now. Besides, what they had was intimate. Private. The idea of a “bull”–the very word made her snort–stripped away everything that made this theirs. A stranger in their bedroom, touching her, inside her. The thought didn’t arouse her. It made her feel wrong. Nope, we can get the same results without any of that, she thought.
She moved on.
Public humiliation. Another bookmarked thread. Suggestions ranged from subtle–making him wear women’s underwear under his work clothes–to flagrant–taking him to a sex shop and having the clerk measure him for a cage. One woman described sending her husband to Victoria’s Secret to buy panties in his size while the salesgirl watched.
The idea had a certain appeal. But their life already had an audience. Neighbors. Colleagues. Adult children who visited on weekends. The risk of exposure, of someone knowing, crossed a line she wasn’t willing to redraw. Keeping it in the bedroom wasn’t just a preference. It was a necessity.
She bookmarked a few of the subtler suggestions anyway. For later. Maybe.
The extreme stuff she dismissed entirely. Diapers–absolutely not. Whips and chains–she had no desire to cause real pain. She also had no idea how anyone could swallow some of the stuff these people were putting in their mouths. It made her stomach turn. All of it belonged to someone else’s twisted fantasy, not hers.
But two bookmarks remained.
Two posts she hadn’t deleted, two that for her might mark the furthest she would go, and honestly she wondered if Tim would tap out on both of them as well. As she began to open those, Tim rolled over and asked, “What are you still doing up?”
She quickly closed the laptop. “Sorry, honey, didn’t mean to wake you.”
***********************************************
The Saturday mall trip was Sammi’s idea. She was Melissa’s best friend of 15 years. Retail therapy, she’d called it. Fresh off her divorce from Bob, she needed new clothes that didn’t carry the smell of a failed marriage.
Melissa walked beside her, shopping bags swinging from her wrists—a crisp fall day with the typical weekend crowds. Behind them, Tim trudged along, arms laden with their purchases. He hadn’t complained once. He never did.
She glanced back at Tim, who had somehow accumulated another shopping bag–hers, from the last store–without either woman noticing.
“Thank you, Tim. You’re so kind.” Sammi’s smile was genuine, which she was doing more of since the divorce was finalized. Melissa had noticed this change recently, and it warmed her heart after years of battling Bob.
Melissa’s eyes flicked to her husband. He stood there, patient as ever, working as a pack mule today.
Something unspooled in her chest.
“He needs to earn his keep somehow.”
The words slipped out soft. Almost casual. But the smirk that curled the corner of her mouth was anything but.
Sammi’s head swiveled. Her expression–baffled, searching–flickered between Melissa’s face and Tim’s. “What does that mean?”
Melissa didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed locked on Tim. His cheeks had gone a deep, spreading pink. His mouth opened. Closed. The shopping bags rustled in his grip.
Sammi, God bless her, rushed to fill the silence. “Well, Tim,” she said, her voice a little too bright now, “thank you again for your chivalry. Bob–” She practically spat the name. “–wouldn’t have offered to carry a single bag. And he’d have bitched about the money I spent before we even left the parking lot.”
The pink in Tim’s cheeks receded slightly. But his eyes never left Melissa. Watching her like a hawk tracking movement in tall grass.
They pushed through the mall’s glass doors into the parking lot. The air was crisp, carrying the distant smell of car exhaust and cooling asphalt. Melissa’s mind raced. Sammi hated Bob. That was clear. The divorce had been ugly–financial squabbles, custody battles, the slow excavation of twenty years of resentment. Maybe she could have fun with this.
But nothing came. No clever line. No sharp-edged observation.
Then Sammi sighed, staring at her phone. “The kids sent me a text last night. Complaining about Bob’s new apartment. They said it’s so small they don’t want to go over there anymore.” She shook her head. “Asshole couldn’t even get a two-bedroom.”
The universe, Melissa thought, was listening.
“Oh–” she said, before her better judgment could intervene, “–I know about small things. Don’t I, Tim?”
She turned. Looked back at him.
His face was crimson. Not the gentle pink of before, but a full-body flush that crawled up his neck and burned at the tips of his ears. His mouth hung open. Silent. Frozen mid-stride.
Sammi laughed–a bright, automatic sound, the kind reserved for marriage banter at dinner parties. “Oh, that’s good. I need to start using that one.”
But then she looked at Melissa. Really looked.
And Melissa knew her face had betrayed her.
Sammi’s laughter died. Her head swiveled between them–Melissa’s smirk, Tim’s stricken silence–her eyes narrowing with the precision of someone who’d spent twenty years decoding the secret language between husbands and wives. Her gaze was a question mark.
“Tim,” Melissa said, her voice light, controlled. “Walk slower.”
She tugged Sammi ahead, their footsteps syncing on the asphalt. Behind them, Tim’s footsteps slowed to a shuffle.
Melissa leaned in. The whisper took thirty seconds. Maybe less. She watched Sammi’s face as she spoke–the initial confusion, the slow dawn of comprehension, the way her lips parted and her eyes widened.
Tim, watching from three car-lengths back, felt his stomach drop. He couldn’t hear a word. Could only see Melissa’s profile, calm and conspiratorial, and Sammi’s expressions shifting like weather. He thought, wildly, that this was it. The line. The space between private humiliation and public exposure. And he hadn’t said Cancun. He hadn’t said anything. He couldn’t.
Sammi stopped walking.
She turned around.
Walked back toward him, a smile spreading across her face that was equal parts mischief and disbelief. She stopped inches from him, close enough that he could smell her perfume–something floral, expensive. Her hand came up to his cheek.
“I never knew that about you, Tim.” Her voice was warm. Playful. Knowing. “It’s okay.”
She kissed his cheek. Soft, and then she patted his cheek as she pulled away with a faux frown as she turned around.
Then she was walking back to Melissa, and Tim was standing there, one hand holding the shopping bags, the other touching the spot on his cheek where her lips had been.
Sammi reached Melissa. Her eyes squinted–not angry, but wary. Protective. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
They dropped Sammi off at her apartment complex twenty minutes later. She hugged Melissa. Then she was gone, and it was just the two of them in the car, the silence thick enough to choke on.
Tim didn’t speak.
Melissa watched him from the passenger seat. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His jaw was set. Every muscle in his body seemed coiled–not with arousal, but with something closer to dread.
This was his line. She knew it. He knew it.
“Are you going to say anything?” she asked.
His voice, when it came, was controlled. The kind of control that takes effort. “What did you tell Sammi?”
“The truth.”
The car seemed to get smaller.
She let the silence stretch–two seconds, three–then exhaled. “Well, I know what’s off limits now.” She shifted in her seat, turning to face him properly. “Honey, relax. It isn’t what you think. I let that fishing line out a little–and I reeled it back in.”
His knuckles stayed white.
“I told her more than you’d expect,” Melissa continued, “but not what you think I told her. I said we’ve been trying to spice things up in the bedroom with role play. I told her you’re an attentive lover. That you do everything I ask. That you always make sure I cum–regardless of whether it’s with your dick or not.”
She waited. Watched his face.
“You want to know what she said?”
“Yes.” The word was barely audible.
“She said, ‘That must be nice. Wish I could have that with someone.’ Then I asked if she’d play along and come up and say that to you. She asked if you’d be mad or happy. I told her, ‘Give him a kiss on the cheek, and it should do the trick.’ You know Sammi. She’s fun. I think she thought, what the hell.” Melissa shrugged. “Honestly, I thought she’d break character. But she performed like a master thespian.”
Silence.
Then Tim’s shoulders dropped. Half an inch. Maybe less.
“I know you’re going to fantasize about this now,” Melissa said, her voice shifting–the dominatrix bleeding back in, soft at the edges but unmistakable. “Because you’re a man. So when we get home, your cage goes back on.”
Tim shook his head slowly. A grin–exhausted, bewildered–cracked through the tension. “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”
She laughed. Reached across the console and palmed his crotch. Rock hard. Straining against denim. “It appears you love this side of me.”
*********************************
That night, Tim walked into the bedroom already locked. The clear plastic cage sat snug at the base of his softening cock, the metal lock glinting under the lamplight. He stood in the doorway, naked, waiting.
Melissa, propped against the pillows, reached over the side of the bed. Her fingers found the mall bag–the one she’d tucked away before dinner, the one he hadn’t seen.
“I wasn’t planning on giving you these yet,” she said. “But I bought you something today.”
She pulled out the panties.
Large. Silk. Baby blue. They draped from her fingers like something out of a boudoir catalog.
“I’m pretty sure they’ll fit. Will you please try them on for me?”
He took them, shaking his head. Disappeared into the bathroom.
When he came back, Melissa couldn’t help it. The laugh burst out of her–genuine, delighted, unguarded. The silk stretched across his hips in a way that was both absurd and oddly beautiful. The cage pressed against the fabric, a ghost of its shape.
He struck a pose. Hand on hip. Chin up. Model-pout.
She laughed harder. “Stop–stop–I can’t–”
Another pose. This one more ridiculous. His tongue poked out.
“Take them off,” she wheezed, wiping her eyes. “Take them off and come here.”
He slid the silk down his thighs and crossed to the bed. She was still smiling, still flushed from laughing, and her legs fell open as he climbed onto the mattress.
“Take this key from me,” she said, lifting the chain from around her neck. “But I won’t make it easy.”
He settled between her thighs. His mouth found her–already wet, already waiting–and the sound she made was half sigh, half shudder. His tongue traced slow patterns, patient and practiced, the way he’d done a hundred times before.
Her fingers fumbled with the lock. The key turned. The cage clicked open.
She pulled him up, pulled him in, and they moved together in the old rhythm–the familiar one, the one that predated all the games. His breath hot against her neck. Her nails tracing his spine.
Afterward, she held the key up between them.
“Back on,” she whispered.
He nodded. She locked him in after he cleaned up, the cage snug around his softening flesh, and tucked the key back beneath her nightgown.
“Good boy.” She kissed his forehead. “Now sleep. Tomorrow, I have more research to do.”
************************************************
His cage stayed on.
All day Sunday. She made pancakes in her nightgown, the key swaying between her breasts, and pretended not to notice Tim’s eyes tracking it like a cat watching a pendulum. During the day she bent over the dishwasher three times–deliberately, slowly–and when he pressed against her from behind, she only tutted. “Not yet.”
Monday morning arrived gray and drizzly. Tim sat at the kitchen table, coffee growing cold, the cage a constant dull pressure he’d almost stopped noticing. Almost.
Melissa padded in, still in her robe. She reached behind her neck and unclasped the chain.
“Come here.”
He stood. She bent, her fingers working the tiny lock with practiced ease. The cage clicked open. She slid it off him and set it on the counter next to the butter dish.
“There. Free man.”
Tim looked down at himself, then back at her. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I don’t get anything in return for wearing this?” The words came out sharper than he intended.
Melissa tilted her head. “You got a kiss on the cheek from my best friend. I’d say that counts for something.” She poured herself coffee. “But no. The cage isn’t transactional, honey. It’s obedience.”
She didn’t lock him again.
What she did instead was worse.
Tuesday evening, they were watching television–some procedural she’d already forgotten the plot of–when she glanced over at him, sprawled on the other end of the couch.
“You know what I’ve been thinking about?”
“Mm?”
“Cuckolding. You know where I get a man with a huge dick to fuck me.”
Tim’s hand, reaching for the remote, stopped midair.
“Not actually doing it,” she continued, her voice conversational. “Just… the fantasy of it. Another man. Someone bigger than you. Someone who could actually reach the places you can’t.”
He said nothing. His ears had gone pink.
“Would you watch?” She tilted her head, studying him like she’d study a menu. “Would you sit in the corner and watch while a real man fucked me properly?”
“You’re joking.”
“Am I?”
Wednesday, she escalated.
He was doing dishes–she’d insisted, though it was her turn–and she came up behind him, pressed her breasts against his back, and whispered, “I was reading last night. About wives who make their husbands clean them up afterward. After the other man finishes inside them.”
The plate in Tim’s hand clattered into the sink.
“You’d probably thank him.” Her lips brushed his earlobe. “You’d probably shake his hand and offer him a beer.”
Thursday morning, she sent him a text while he was at work: Thinking about Harry again. Remember how I told you my fingers couldn’t close around him? I measured my fingers around my Red Bull yesterday about the same.
He didn’t respond for seventeen minutes. When he did: You’re evil.
She wrote back: And you’re hard at your desk.
She was right.
Thursday night, he called her bluff.
They sat on opposite ends of the couch again, but this time he wasn’t passive. His jaw was set. His eyes had a glint she recognized–the same glint from the car after the mall, when knuckles went white on the steering wheel.
“So.” His voice was steady. Too steady. “Who do you have in mind?”
Melissa looked up from her phone. “What?”
“To be this guy. The one who fucks you in front of me.” He leaned back, arms crossed. “You’ve been talking about it all week. I assume you have someone picked out.”
She blinked.
He didn’t break. His face stayed neutral, almost bored and defeated.
Melissa’s pulse ticked up. Oh boy.
“Cancun,” she blurted.
Tim’s expression cracked. Slowly and devastatingly–a smirk. “You just used the safeword.”
“I know what I did.”
“That means you needed to stop. Not me.”
“Yes, Tim. That’s what it means.”
His smirk widened. “Interesting.”
Melissa set her phone down. A strange cocktail of emotions swirled through her–annoyance at being outmaneuvered, pride that he’d learned to push back, and something hotter underneath both of those. Something that felt like a challenge.
“Oh, that’s going to cost you, wise guy.”
“Yeah?” He spread his hands. “What’s left? You’ve done everything. The sleeve. The cage. The measuring. The panties.” He stopped. Swallowed. “The mall thing.”
“Not everything.”
Melissa rose from the couch. Walked around behind him. Her hand found his shoulder, then slid down his back, over the curve of his spine, and settled on his ass cheek. She squeezed.
“Not everything, dear.” She’d planned to do this on a weekend, but this was better timing.
Tim went very still.
“Go take a shower. Clean. Real clean.” She let her voice drop into that register–the one that wasn’t Melissa, wasn’t the accountant’s wife, wasn’t anyone who’d ever packed a school lunch or cried at a dog commercial. “Everywhere.”
Melissa went to the closet. Two new, thick beach towels. She spread them on the bedroom floor, smoothing the edges, aligning them just so. Then she went to the closet–the deep corner, behind the winter coats–and retrieved the box she’d hidden there three weeks ago.
The harness was black leather. Simple. Adjustable. She stepped into it like she’d practiced, cinching the straps around her hips and thighs. Then she attached the attachment.
Glow-in-the-dark neon green. Slim, as advertised. Seven inches.
She was standing in the middle of the bedroom, hands on her hips, when Tim walked in.
His eyes went to her face first. Then down. Then wide.
Saucers. Actual saucers.
He shook his head. “No.”
The word had no conviction. It was a reflex–the last gasp of something he thought he should say.
“I went with the slim model.” Melissa gave the silicone a dismissive flick. “You know. Like yours.” She giggled–genuine, girlish, utterly incongruous with the green cock jutting from her hips. “Except this one’s seven inches. So I have a bigger dick than you now.”
Tim’s mouth opened. Closed.
“You use the safeword at any time, and we stop.” She stepped toward him. The harness creaked. “I know I have to warm you up first.”
“How does it feel?” His voice was hoarse. “Hanging between your legs like that.”
“Honestly?” She rolled her hips experimentally. The weight swung. “I like it. I feel powerful.” She threw her head back and let out a roar–theatrical, ridiculous–and Tim laughed despite himself, a bark of surprise that broke the tension for exactly three seconds.
Then Melissa flipped the light switch. Darkness swallowed the room. She knew this wasn’t a sight she wanted to see in the light.
And the cock glowed.
A green, spectral shape. Tim stared at it, his face half-lit by the ghostly luminescence, and started laughing again. “So you’re going to fuck me with a stick of kryptonite?”
Melissa dropped to her knees. The glow cast strange shadows on the ceiling.
“Will it have the same effect on you as Superman?” She crawled toward him, the neon phallus bobbing. “Will you kneel and surrender to my power?”
The laughter died in his throat.
She patted the towels. “On your stomach, honey.”
He complied. The cage was already off–she’d unlocked him before he got in the shower–and as he settled onto the towels, she could see him. Half-hard. Growing.
Fascinating.
“I need you on your knees,” she said. “Not flat. Up.”
He shifted. The position was vulnerable–chest down, ass up, face pressed into the towels. Melissa uncapped the lube and slicked her index finger.
This wasn’t romantic. The new towels smelled faintly of fabric softener, and her husband was presenting himself like an animal in a nature documentary. But her pulse was hammering, and between her legs, pressed against the leather harness, she was wet.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Here we go.”
Her finger circled him. Slow. Gentle. He tensed.
“Breathe,” she said. “I’ve got you.”
She pressed in—just the tip. Tim made a sound she’d never heard before–a strangled exhale, half surprise, half something else. She waited. Then deeper. Her other hand found his balls, cupping them, a counterpoint of pleasure.
“How does it feel?”
“Strange.” The towels muffled his voice. “It feels… strange.”
“Strange good or strange bad?”
A pause. She crooked her finger, searching, and when she found the small firm knot of his prostate, his whole body jerked.
“That,” he gasped. “That’s–”
“Strange good,” she finished. She pressed again, gentler. His erection was fully hard now, hanging heavy between his legs, dripping onto the towels. She worked her finger in slow circles, letting him adjust, letting the strangeness morph into something else.
“Are you ready for my kryptonite?”
“Yes.”
She withdrew her finger. Positioned herself behind him. The glowing tip pressed against him–slim, slick, impossible to look away from in the darkness.
“Tell me if it hurts.”
It didn’t.
She’d warmed him up well–thoroughly, patiently–and the entry was slow but smooth. Inch by inch, the green glow disappeared inside him. Tim’s breathing went ragged. His hands fisted the towels.
“How does that feel?” She was halfway in now. “Knowing something bigger than you is inside you?”
A groan. His hips pushed back.
“Whose dick is bigger, honey?” She bottomed out, hips flush against him, and held still. “Say it.”
“Yours.” The word came out shredded. “Your dick is bigger.”
“And how does that feel?”
He couldn’t answer. She started to move–shallow thrusts at first, then deeper–and his response was a sound she’d only ever made herself. A sound of surrender. She watched the green glow slide in and out of him, and the absurdity of it–the kryptonite, the neon, the leather harness creaking against her thighs–made her want to laugh. But underneath the absurdity was something electric. Power, yes. But also tenderness. His vulnerability, offered up to her like a gift.
She reached around and found him. Hard. Slick. Untouched.
“You’re close.”
“Yes–”
“Come for me, then. Come with my cock inside you.”
He did.
No hands. No friction but the pressure of her inside him. His body seized, and he spilled onto the towels in long pulses, a groan torn from somewhere deep. Melissa held still, buried to the hilt, feeling every shudder through the silicone.
Fascinating, she thought again.
He collapsed. She withdrew carefully, unbuckled the harness, and let it fall to the floor–the green glow still faintly visible, a ghost in the corner. Then she lay down behind him, spooning him on the towels, her breasts pressed to his back. Her hand stroked his hip.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I put the towels down and why we are on the floor and not the bed?”
“Mm?”
He turned his head. Looked at her over his shoulder–sweaty, dazed, utterly undone. “You’re thoughtful, and thought maybe there would be a mess?”
“I’m thorough. There’s a difference. And yes, there might be a mess.” She kissed his shoulder blade. Then she rolled him onto his back, positioning him so the towels were bunched beneath him, absorbent and ready.
“Tim.” Her voice changed again. Softer. More serious. “There’s one more thing I need to do. To claim you. To mark you, and it’s the other reason for these thick towels.” She swung a leg over his chest, straddling him, her bare sex hovering just above his skin, as she slid up, straddling his head. His eyes went wide–not with arousal now, but with something closer to alarm. “Say the word, and I stop.”
He stared up at her. The silence stretched.
And then, slowly, Melissa’s face broke into a grin, looking down and smiling at him. She slid back towards his chest, shaking her head. “No way, honey. That’s too far for me, too.”
Relief flooded his features.
“But–” She settled on her knees, straddling his chest now, her pussy suspended above him, “–I am going to mark you. Just not where you feared.”
She relaxed.
The first trickle hit his chest. Warm. Clear–she’d been drinking water all day, preparing. It pooled in the hollow of his collarbone before spilling down his sternum.
“Look at that,” she murmured. “Look at you.”
He did. He watched her stream trace patterns across his stomach, through the sparse hair below his navel, down.
She shifted her hips lower. The stream found his cock–spent, soft, glistening–and she let it cascade over him, marking him.
“You’re mine now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Everywhere I say you’re mine. Every inch of you belongs to me. That’s what this means.” The stream began to fade, a last few drops splashing his thighs. “The cage says I own your pleasure. The panties say I own your dignity. My cock owns your ass. And this–” She squeezed out the final trickle, right over the head of his cock. “This says I own your body. Every function. Every inch.”
His chest rose and fell. His eyes were glassy, fixed on her face.
“How does it feel?” She noticed he was somehow semi-hard again. Bizarre, she thought, but she loved the response.
He swallowed. “Warm,” he said as he shook his head, thinking of how ludicrous this was.
A beat of silence. Then Melissa smiled–not the dominatrix, not the role, just her. Just Melissa, who’d spent two decades being sweet and quiet and predictable.
“Good,” she said, reaching for a clean towel she’d set aside. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Come to the shower after you dry off.”
He took his time and came to the shower, where she was already running the water, and stepped in. “I never thought anyone would pee on me, unless I were stung by a jellyfish.”
Melissa laughed at the Friends reference, as she got the sponges and lathered him up, cleaning him from behind with her breasts resting against his back.
*************************************************************
The water fell over them both, steam fogging up the glass. Melissa’s hands moved in slow circles across his chest, working the last traces of warmth from his skin. Her touch was light now–tender, almost reverent. The harness lay discarded on the bedroom floor.
“Hey.” Her voice was soft. Vulnerable. The voice she used when the games were done, and the masks came off. “Do you think anything has changed for the worse? Did I push too far?”
Tim let out a breath that could have been a laugh. “You mean like sticking a dildo in my ass, peeing on me, making fun of me in front of your best friend–” He ticked them off on his fingers, his tone light. “–having me eat your ass, wear a penis sleeve, the constant humiliation verbally and with the cage?”
Melissa’s hand stilled on his stomach. Her eyes searched his.
“Nope.” He turned to face her fully, water streaming down his nose. “I’ve enjoyed almost every minute of it.”
“Almost?”
“Almost.” He shrugged. “The mall thing scared me at first more than I expected, and you freaking peed on me, you weirdo.” He chuckled and found her waist as she grinned at the connection that seemed to have grown stronger over the last couple of months.
Melissa leaned into his chest. The water ran between them, warm and steady. She felt his heartbeat against her cheek.
He kissed the top of her head. “Do you realize how many people our age just settle? They hit the empty nest, and suddenly they don’t recognize each other. The person across the dinner table is a stranger who raised the kids with them for twenty years.” His voice dropped. “They cheat. Or they divorce. Or they just… stop. Stop touching, talking, or even trying.”
She looked up at him. His eyes were clear, earnest.
“But you didn’t stop. You found something new. You came to me with it. And yeah, some of it was weird–” His lips twitched. “–but it was you. You came up with it. You wanted to explore. That’s the part that got me. Not the tape measure or the cage or the kryptonite cock. The fact that you wanted to find new ways to be close to me.”
Melissa’s throat tightened.
Not wanting to get too mushy, he said, “Oh,” he added, his grin sharpening, “when do I get to make fun of you? Or have you eat my ass?”
She cringed. “Are you sure you were okay with all of it?”
“Yes.” He held her gaze. “Some of it was weird, but I was game.” His hands slid up her arms. “Actually, honey–what can I do for you? It doesn’t have to be sexual. Anything. Surprise me.”
She stared at him. Water dripped from her lashes. “Surprise you?”
“Surprise me.”
************************************.
March arrived wet and gray. They fell into a rhythm that felt almost like the old days–dinners on the couch, his hand on her thigh, sex that was good and familiar and enough. The toys stayed in the drawer. The cage stayed in the nightstand. They didn’t talk about the games, but they didn’t need to. Something had settled between them. Not boredom. Peace.
Then, two weeks before her birthday, Tim came home with a shift in his posture.
He set his keys in the bowl by the door. He didn’t call out his usual Honey, I’m home. Instead, he walked straight to the living room where Melissa was reading, and he stood in front of her until she looked up.
His eyes had that glint. The one from the car. The one from the couch.
“Your birthday is coming up.” His voice was different. Lower. Seductive in a way she’d never heard from him. “I have something extra special planned for you that night.”
Melissa set her book down. “What is it?”
“A surprise.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. Full size. Glossy. He held it face-down against his chest. “But I wanted to show you a preview.”
He turned it around.
Melissa’s breath caught.
A naked cowboy man stared back at her from the photo. A Stetson hat attached to a young, ripped cowboy. Abs like a washboard, shoulders broad, jaw sharp, and a massive cock that she swears would have to be photoshopped.
“What the fuck is this?” She looked up at Tim, her brow furrowed. “Is this–are you–”
“Turn it over,” he said, his voice a purr.
She flipped it.
On the back, in his handwriting: Sorry, the only cowboy you get is me playing cowboy.
Below that, taped to the bottom of the photo, a pamphlet.
She peeled it off. A glossy brochure for a resort ranch outside Santa Fe. Horses. Adobe architecture. A spa. A map of hiking trails and art galleries.
She looked at Tim. Looked at the photo. Looked at the pamphlet.
Her face cracked into a grin.
“Really, dear?……. You’re getting better at fooling me.” She clutched the pamphlet to her chest. “Are we really going to go?”
He nodded. “I know you love art galleries. I always defer to what you want, but I know you’ve always had a thing for those western shows. The cowboy aesthetic. The romance of it.”
“Tim.” The word came out soft. “You’re awesome.”
He shrugged, but his ears were pink. “I figured we could do some role-play while we’re down there.”
“Hmm.” She tapped the pamphlet against her palm. “Let me think.” Her eyes drifted to the ceiling. “Cowboy boots. A hat. Chaps.” She let the words hang. “You wouldn’t be allowed to wear anything else.”
His pink ears deepened to crimson. “In public?”
“In the room. In the desert. On the balcony if we’re alone.” She smiled, slow and sharp. “The rest of the time, you’ll be in costume. My personal cowboy. Ready to serve.”
He swallowed. “Chaps? Really?”
“You wanted to surprise me. I’m surprising you back.” She stood, folding the pamphlet into her pocket. “We have three weeks. Plenty of time to get you fitted,” she said, chuckling.
She walked past him toward the bedroom, but paused at the door. Looked back, grinning with that devilish glint back in her eye.
The End.
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