Silence descends like a velvet curtain as I gaze upon our living room's intimate stage. In the kitchen, brunch awaits: an amuse-bouche of smoked salmon tartare, mingling delicate salmon with crème fraîche, capers, and dill. The main course is lobster Benedict: poached eggs crown butter-poached lobster tail. A bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne chills nearby, chosen for its rare elegance.
The space gleams, vacuumed and dusted to hotel-like perfection. Sarah and I scan for any imperfection, our eyes locking in a shared thrill. She offers a subtle smile, the air thick with anticipation for our intimate trial.
An hour ago, I began readying her. With gentle precision, I shaped her bush into a soft heart, then drew a scented bath. I washed her shoulder-length hair, letting suds cascade over her skin, before tracing every curve with luxurious European cream from Sephora. Her silken skin, perfumed like blooming night jasmine, vibrates with the silent symphony of desire
I selected a form-fitting black silk midi dress for her, its low off-the-shoulder cut framing her collarbone and décolletage like a whispered invitation. Timeless and elegant, the fabric clung subtly to her athletic curves, blending mystery with an alluring accessibility that quickened my pulse. In stark contrast, I stood utterly exposed—naked save for my collar and the unyielding grip of my cock cage, a vulnerability that stirred a mix of humiliation and electric arousal. This was our pivotal day; every detail had to shimmer for our guest, due any moment.
JAMAL had entered our lives just six weeks prior, in a cozy coffee shop on a crisp, overcast September afternoon. The air hummed with the bitter steam of lattes, echoing the subtle upheaval stirring within me. He cut a striking figure—ebony skin aglow under a navy blazer, crisp white shirt parted just enough to hint at the chiseled torso forged in athletic fire. A legacy of his football prowess honed further by his demanding career as an attorney, his presence commanded the room effortlessly, drawing gazes with quiet authority.
I recall his firm handshake, a grip that hinted at untapped power. His chiseled features—strong jaw, piercing eyes—exerted a magnetic draw, one Sarah couldn't ignore as they connected over world news and local intrigue. The conversation surged like a live wire, charged and relentless, until she invited him home, her tone infused with an excitement I naively dismissed as simple friendliness.
Sarah, at 26, glowed under Jamal’s gaze, her golden blonde hair spilling like sunlight over her shoulders, her athletic frame—sculpted from years of competitive volleyball—radiating allure in the black silk dress. How I, a slight 5’5” with no athletic prowess, caught her eye in college remains a mystery. I’d had bisexual encounters before her, but Sarah became my anchor. Our bond ignited fast, leading to marriage just two months later.
Jamal’s lingering looks, once charming and playful to me, signaled the start of something deeper. In the weeks that followed, Sarah drifted into his orbit, ensnared by a Dominant/submissive dynamic that awakened a primal hunger within her. She surrendered to his command, her thoughts woven with obedience and a breathless ecstasy that left her transformed.
His dominance was a quiet force, binding her without need for chains. I felt it acutely the next time we met, on his yacht at the harbor. The salty breeze mixed with the scent of luxury leather and polished wood as they lounged on the aft deck, cocktails in hand, their bodies close enough to radiate an unspoken intimacy. Sarah’s cheeks flushed, her eyes lowered in a potent blend of shame and thrill. Joining them, my heart thudded with confusion and a disquieting arousal I couldn’t name.
Jamal's voice cut through the tension, deep and unyielding. "John, you might or might not already suspect, but I've been with Sarah several times a week for the past few weeks. We're not stopping. The question is where will I continue to be with her —at my place without you or at yours."
My mind reeled, a whirlwind of betrayal and curiosity. "What do you mean?" I stammered, my voice cracking under the weight of unspoken fears.
"Sarah's my bitch now," he said plainly, his words landing like a blow, stirring a dark dread in my gut.
"She serves me completely. I don't want to tear her from you entirely, but if you stay, there are rules—conditions that bind you both to me."
I turned to her, desperate for reassurance. "What do you say, Sarah?"
"DON'T SPEAK TO HER WITHOUT MY PERMISSION," Jamal snarled, his tone a whip that made my skin prickle with humiliation and an odd submission.
Sarah averted her gaze, her breath quickening, her body language screaming her internal conflict—love for me warring with the intoxicating pull of his control.
Jamal softened his stare toward her. "Go ahead, tell him."
She met my eyes, her voice trembling yet resolute. "John, I crave this with Jamal. He dominates me in ways that set my soul on fire, making me feel alive, desired, owned. But I still love you deeply. We can make this work together—if you submit too."
The words hung in the air, heavy with possibility and dread. My thoughts spiraled: the loneliness of losing her versus the twisted intimacy of sharing her under his rule. Emotions crashed over me—jealousy like acid in my veins, but also a forbidden excitement, a psychological surrender that made my pulse race.
Jamal leaned forward, his presence overwhelming. "Here's your choice, you can join Sarah as my slave couple and serve me together. Or I claim Sarah fully, and you're left in the empty echoes of what was."
The yacht's gentle sway amplified my inner turmoil. Becoming Jamal's slave felt like a blow to my ego and humanity which would erode my sense of self. But solitude without Sarah? Unbearable, a void that clawed at my heart. In that moment, the psychological pull won—I craved the connection, even if it meant kneeling for a new Master I barely knew.
"I'll submit with her," I whispered, my voice breaking. "We'll be your slaves, so we can stay together."
Jamal's smile was predatory, approving. "Wise decision. But submission comes with restrictions to remind you of your place."
He outlined them methodically, each one a psychological anchor: both Sarah and I would wear a collar, a constant symbol of ownership that would chafe and arouse in equal measure. A cock cage would lock away my desires, building frustration into a delicious torment, only released at his direction. When he stayed over, I retreated to the guest bedroom, listening through walls to their moans, my isolation amplifying the erotic agony of exclusion.
Additional rules layered on: I'd shave my body smooth weekly, exposing vulnerability that heightened every touch. I'd prepare their meals, serve them with bowed head, dress in only my collar and cock cage, the act stirring a mix of resentment and submissive bliss. I would prepare Sarah for Jamal's visits by bathing her, shaving her smooth, and dress her in sexy outfits that will please him. After their encounters, I am expected to clean up, which means I will make myself available to lick away traces of their passion, wherever it happens to be located as a reminder of my standing in the family hierarchy. Tasting the remnants of her arousal mixed with his powerful seed, a ritual that blurred humiliation into intimacy.
“Is this acceptable, John? You have only one minute to answer. Think carefully,” Jamal said, his voice flat and unyielding.
A thousand images flashed through my mind—fragments of our life together, now twisted by this new reality. My throat tightened, but I met his gaze. “I accept.”
Sarah’s face softened with relief, her hand grazing mine in a brief, tender show of unity. Yet her eyes gleamed with raw anticipation, her body subtly arching toward Jamal’s unspoken pull.
He stood, his imposing frame looming over us like a shadow of inevitability. “It begins tonight. Fetch the collar from my bag below deck.”
My legs trembled as I obeyed, the yacht’s gentle sway amplifying my unsteadiness. Returning, Sarah and I knelt before him, the deck cool beneath our knees. Jamal fastened the leather collars around our necks—first hers, then mine. The material was cool at first, then warmed against my skin, a tangible emblem of surrender. The lock’s click reverberated in my chest, blending fear with a surging rush of endorphins, the intoxicating thrill of release.
Sarah’s breath caught as she watched, her fingers brushing my arm. “We’re in this together,” she whispered, her touch igniting shivers that danced along my spine.
Jamal pulled her close, his hand claiming her waist with possessive ease. “Now, both of you kneel and thank your Master properly.”
We knelt on the deck in unison, our voices murmuring gratitude like a shared vow. The sun dipped low, gilding the water in molten hues, as the yacht's gentle sway carried us toward the evening's shadowed promises. Below deck, Jamal led us to his opulent cabin, the air dense with unspoken hunger.
He commanded Sarah to undress slowly, her silk dress slipping away like discarded inhibitions, unveiling her toned body, slick with a sheen of nervous sweat that caught the dim light.
With deliberate grace, Jamal shed his robe, the fabric sighing against his skin as it pooled at his feet, exposing his powerful build. He settled onto the couch, his semi-erect cock thrusting forward—a thick, veined emblem of dominance, already pulsing with intent. The room thickened with his musky arousal, laced with the sea's salty whisper through open windows. I stared, stunned by its girth and his effortless confidence. If submission called, it would be to him.
Jamal directed us to a lounge chair across the room, his gaze locking on Sarah like a predator's claim. "Crawl to me," he rumbled, his voice a tremor that rippled through us both. "Show your devotion."
Her heart pounded, a storm of humiliation and exhilaration flooding her veins. On all fours, she traversed the plush carpet, knees sinking deep, blonde hair swaying with each prowling step. The weight of submission crushed her—knowing I watched, my collar echoing hers, my caged ache a mirror to our entwined surrender. Exposed and raw, she felt vibrantly alive, far beyond vanilla confines. From my vantage, her swaying form mesmerized, her lovely ass undulating with hypnotic grace. She halted at his feet, breath held.
"Now suck it," he ordered, unyielding. "No hands. Just your mouth, like the eager bitch you crave to be."
Sarah rose slightly, hands clasped behind her back, the pose arching her body in exquisite restraint. Leaning in, her lips parted to claim the swollen head—warm, smooth, tasting of salt and potent essence that evoked forbidden memories. She bobbed with deliberate rhythm, her mouth gliding along his thickening shaft, feeling it surge and harden. Cheeks hollowing with suction, she wove a trance of obedience, her mind looping in blissful reward.
"Good girl," Jamal murmured, eyes drifting shut as he reclined, yielding to the cresting pleasure.
His hand rested lightly on her head—not forcing, but owning—while her wet slurps and stifled breaths echoed, heightening the room's charged intimacy.
I sat frozen across the way, pulse roaring. The scene clawed at me: jealousy a razor in my gut, fused with illicit heat straining my cage. Psychologically, it ravaged—humiliation in her stolen ecstasy, yet our bond anchored me, choosing this over emptiness. Sarah's fervor built, her body writhing with need, moans humming around his rigid length.
After an eternity of minutes, Jamal's eyes snapped open, a smug curve to his lips. "Enough teasing. Mount me, Sarah. Turn around—let your cuckold husband watch what he'll never claim."
Sarah withdrew her mouth with a soft pop, lips glistening, breath ragged and uneven. She rose, legs quivering from the mounting tension, and straddled him, facing me—a stark psychological mirror. Her eyes met mine, a silent blend of apology and rapture, as she descended onto Jamal's cock. It stretched her inch by inch, filling her utterly, igniting sparks of fullness and surrender that drew a sharp gasp from her throat.
She ground against him slowly at first, toned thighs flexing as she rose and fell, the couch creaking in rhythm. The sight seared into me: her breasts heaving, her shaved pussy clenching his dark shaft, slick arousal trailing down in shimmering paths. Sounds swelled—skin slapping softly, her whimpers rising to fervent cries, Jamal's grunts affirming his control. Emotionally, Sarah teetered on the brink: the ecstasy of being claimed, the sting of guilt in my gaze, yet an intoxicating bond that amplified it all.
Jamal's hands claimed her hips, urging her faster, his voice a guttural growl. "Feel that, cucky? This is what submission earns—watching her unravel for me." My mind splintered, arousal and anguish fusing into a dizzying haze, my body throbbing futilely against its cage.
Sarah's rhythm hastened, her peak cresting as an inexorable tide, shattering in quivers and resonant cries. Jamal thrust deep, releasing inside her with a low groan, the warmth flooding her in waves of completion. She slumped against him, spent and radiant, as he cupped her breasts, drawing her closer. They lingered entwined, her head resting on his shoulder, while I sat immobilized, the invisible chains of desire binding us tighter.
"Grab your clothes and leave," Jamal commanded flatly. Sarah rose first, slipping into her dress with lingering grace. I stood, following suit, the air heavy with unspoken aftermath.
"Next time I'll claim you both. Your test, cucky: arrange everything flawlessly. Greet me at the door on your knees, obey without question or hesitation. Fail, and Sarah and I vanish—you'll never see her again. One chance. Now get out!"
Six weeks of shadowed submission blurred into the dawn of our trial, leading to that fateful Saturday morning. The wait for Master’s arrival was a crucible of terror and exhilaration. I’d meticulously arranged everything, certain I’d met his exacting standards, yet the uncertainty of his demands as his cuckold slave gnawed at me.
Jamal arrived precisely on time. As he approached the front door, I dropped to my knees, crawling to meet him. He paused on the porch, unmoving, forcing me to open the door and crawl outside. It was 9 a.m., the neighborhood alive with passersby and lawnmowers. A chilly breeze bit at my skin, shame prickling as eyes might have lingered. Jamal’s command cut through: “Strip me. Now.”
I hesitated, but his stern gaze silenced any defiance. He wore tight black pants, a short-sleeved shirt, and loafers. Trembling, I peeled away his clothes, revealing his chiseled, muscular frame. Beneath his pants, tight athletic shorts outlined his massive cock, heavy and commanding. Still on the porch, he ordered me to kiss it and thank him for pleasuring my wife. My lips brushed the fabric, words of gratitude stumbling out. He shed the shorts, pirouetted slowly—his naked form a bold display for any onlookers—then strode into the house, commanding me to wait outside.
The cold nipped at me as I stared at my feet, avoiding neighbors’ potential gazes. After an hour, Sarah appeared at the door, naked but for her collar, her hair mussed. Jamal’s seed glistened on her inner thigh, evidence of their tryst begun without me. She beckoned, her voice soft: “He’s ready for you.”
We ascended to the upstairs bedroom, where Jamal sat waiting in a chair, his presence dominating. He rose, ordering me to lie on my back, head dangling over the bed’s edge. Sarah knelt above me, her pussy poised over my face, her scent—a sultry, musky, primal bouquet—flooding my senses.
From below, I watched Jamal slowly approach, his 10-inch ebony shaft swaying between athletic thighs, fully erect. It glided into Sarah’s silken folds with deliberate grace, her vulva stretching to embrace his girth, a mesmerizing testament to her surrender. Each thrust coaxed glistening rivulets of her nectar, cascading along her skin. When he plunged deep, his silken sac brushed my nose and chin, enveloping me in a warm, musky eclipse. As he withdrew, his glistening shaft pulsed with raw power, veins mapping a landscape of desire.
A charged pause hung in the air, Sarah’s trembling body aching for more. Jamal savored the tension, letting it stretch until her soft whimpers broke free, pleading. He resumed with agonizing slowness, each inch teasing her quivering core. I extended my tongue, tracing his shaft’s underside, tasting the exquisite blend of Sarah’s sweet honey and Jamal’s salty cum—a creamy, decadent symphony, forbidden and divine, coating my senses with luxurious warmth.
From my inverted vantage, I watched Jamal enter Sarah inch by inch, her inner walls clutching him possessively, reluctant to release his invading fullness. The contrast intoxicated me: his ebony shaft withdrawing slick and gleaming, trailing viscous strings of her creamy arousal that dripped down her thighs in lewd rivulets, leaving her entrance momentarily gaping, aching for more—before he surged back in, reclaiming her with raw, unyielding dominance.
His rhythm accelerated, a relentless storm. That black shaft plowed into Sarah with savage force, each thrust shaking her core, and I trembled beneath them, fearing my presence might disrupt his primal zeal, yet craving the creamy torrent it promised. Finally, Jamal slammed deep into her womb, holding fast, fully sheathed within her. I felt the rhythmic pulses—his balls contracting over and over, pumping surge after surge of his potent seed into her, as if flooding her with a gallon of his essence, marking her from within.
He withdrew with a wet, obscene pop, and a river of his essence poured from her stretched entrance, thick and pearlescent. Instinctively, I positioned my mouth beneath her, sealing my lips to her sex. Willingly, I accepted the deluge—Master's seed gliding across my tongue, warm and salty, sliding down my throat in heavy swallows, a forbidden communion that stirred my caged desire to agonizing heights.
Jamal rose, his gaze locking onto mine with piercing authority. "Worship," he commanded, his voice a velvet thunder.
I crawled to him on my knees, reverent and humbled, my tongue tracing every inch of his massive cock and balls, lapping away the mingled remnants of his cum and Sarah's slick nectar. The taste was divine degradation—creamy, musky, intoxicating—as I swallowed it all, my submission complete.
Satisfied, he dressed with casual grace and headed for the door. Pausing, he turned, a smirk curling his lips. "Okay, cucky slave—you pass."
A torrent of emotions crashed over me: humiliation's sharp sting, the sweet ache of surrender, a twisted pride in my obedience. I gathered Sarah into my arms, her body limp and spent, hovering on the edge of blissful coma, her skin flushed and radiant with afterglow. She murmured contentedly, relaxing into me. Alone in the dim light, I lay awake beside her, emotions churning—regret's shadow mingling with an unexpected contentment, the collar's weight and the cage's bite constant reminders that our journey was far from over. Was this the end... or a intoxicating new beginning?
