Kevin had always felt like Moira was a living flame, her porcelain skin glowing under the freckles that dotted her shoulders like stars scattered across a pale sky, her red hair spilling down her back in wild, untamed waves that caught the light and held it hostage. At thirty-five, she moved through the world with a body's grace that turned heads and twisted hearts—curves that spoke of indulgence, full breasts that rose and fell with every breath, hips that rolled like an invitation, and an ass so soft and full it seemed made for hands to linger on. Her eyes, that sharp green, held secrets and promises in equal measure, and her mouth, often curved in a knowing half-smile, could coax confessions from the quietest souls. She was his wife, his everything, the woman who'd pulled him into this dance of theirs, where the sharp sting of sharing her only deepened the ache of wanting her more.
It had begun in whispers over late-night glasses of wine, her confession about a stranger's gaze at a crowded party lingering between them like smoke. Kevin's body had betrayed him then, stirring with a heat he couldn't name, picturing her flush under another's touch. "Would you?" he'd murmured, throat tight. She'd leaned close, her breath warm against his skin, voice dropping low: "Only if you watch me slip into something sinful. Only if you're waiting, caged and burning for me, so I can come back to you, still carrying him inside." Three years on, and it was woven into them now—a ritual that bound them tighter, month by month, turning envy into something raw and electric.
Tonight, the bedroom air hung thick with it, charged like the moments before a storm breaks. Kevin perched on the bed's edge, bare from the waist down, his skin prickling in the lamplight's glow. The faint scent of her jasmine lotion already teased the air, mingling with the deeper, earthier hint of her growing want. Moira stood at the mirror, back to him, in nothing but a whisper of black lace that vanished between the plush swell of her cheeks. She was all softness and strength at five-foot-six, her waist dipping in before blooming out to hips that begged to be traced, thighs that promised warmth and yield.
She met his eyes in the glass, her smile slow and wicked, pulling at him like a tide. "Caught you staring already. Thinking about how he'll touch me here?" Her voice rolled out soft, that lingering Irish lilt wrapping around the words like silk over gravel, making his pulse stutter.
He gripped the duvet, knuckles whitening, as his body responded without permission—his length thickening, rising heavy and insistent. "God, Moira... you're unraveling me before you even start." His gaze roamed her, drinking in the freckles on her shoulders, the vulnerable line of her neck where her hair was twisted up loose, exposing skin he longed to mark. But not tonight. Tonight, that was for someone else. A drop of warmth gathered at his tip, sliding slow down the vein that pulsed with his heartbeat.
Her laugh came light, like rain on leaves, and she turned, deliberate and unhurried, letting him take her in fully. Her breasts shifted with the motion—full and weighty, nipples tightening into dusky peaks under his stare. She gathered them in her hands, lifting, kneading gently, her thumbs brushing those sensitive tips until a quiet sigh escaped her. "These? They'll be his to hold tonight, Kevin. Imagine his palms, rougher than yours, squeezing while he drives into me from behind, making me arch and gasp."
The image hit him low, breath catching sharp in his chest, his shaft straining higher, aching for any kind of ease. His hand twitched toward it, but she caught the motion, shaking her head with a soft tsk, her eyes darkening with that quiet command he craved. "Not yet. Not at all, love. Tonight, you're all mine to hold back." The words landed like a spark on dry tinder, his need sharpening into something almost painful. She crossed to the nightstand, hips swaying in that unhurried rhythm that always undid him, and lifted the cage—cool steel, shaped to his contours, the ring wide enough to circle him fully, the tube a relentless curve of denial. The key swung from its chain at her throat, resting in the valley between her breasts, a glint of silver against flushed skin.
She knelt before him, close enough that her breath feathered over his heated length, her scent—warm skin and faint salt—flooding his senses. "So eager already. But this part of you? It's locked away tonight, while I let him have what he wants." Her lips parted, tongue darting out to trace the bead at his tip, a fleeting warmth that made him jerk, a low sound tearing from his throat. Then she drew back, fitting the ring around his base first, the metal chill biting into warmed flesh, drawing his balls up tight. She aligned the cage next, but it fought her—his arousal too full, the head swollen and unyielding against the confines.
A soft hum escaped her, half amusement, half hunger. "Too worked up, aren't you? We can't have that." Her hand cupped him low, fingers cradling the weight of his sack, rolling them slow in her palm, feeling the heat, the subtle shift as they tightened under her touch. Kevin's breath went ragged, hips lifting just a fraction, chasing more. Then her grip firmed, and the first slap landed—sharp, open-palmed against the tender underside, a bloom of heat that stole his air. "Ah—Moira!" The word cracked out, his body recoiling, the sting radiating deep, forcing blood away in a rush, his length softening under the shock.
She didn't relent, her eyes holding his, fierce with a love that edged into something wilder. Another strike, firmer, the sound a wet *smack* that echoed in the quiet room, his balls swinging with the force, a deeper ache settling in like embers. "There... let it fade for me. Go soft, so I can keep you safe." One more, lighter but pinpointed along the seam, and he groaned, eyes stinging, the pain twisting through him—not just hurt, but a raw unraveling, stripping him bare. His shaft yielded then, shrinking into the tube with a defeated ease, the final *pop* of her palm a gentle seal on his surrender. The lock clicked home, the cage's weight pulling constant now, a reminder etched into his skin.
"Perfect," she murmured, rising with a satisfied curve to her mouth, tracing a finger along the bars where his softening heat pressed against them. "Now you're set. All that building fire? Hold it for me. For when I bring him back to you." He shifted, the throb in his groin a layered thing—confinement and the fresh, pulsing tenderness from her hand, keeping him caught between ache and want.
She turned to the vanity then, pouring oil into her palm—vanilla-warm, edged with spice—and worked it into her skin starting high, circles slow over her collarbone, down the slope between her breasts until they gleamed, slick and inviting. Kevin watched, chest tight, as she lingered there, pinching those peaks until they stood harder, her breath hitching soft. A flush climbed her chest, slow and real. "Feels like fire already. But his mouth... he takes his time, sucking until I'm marked, until I can't think straight."
Bending to reach her thighs, she offered him the view that broke him every time—ass lifted, the lace riding high, her folds visible now, pink and already sheened with her own quiet hunger. He let out a ragged sound, the cage clamping as his body tried to rise, the slap's echo flaring hot in his balls. She was ready for Marcus, that broad-shouldered stranger from the gallery, his messages a string of heat she'd shared with Kevin over coffee one morning: promises of bending her over, filling her until she trembled. Those words had haunted him since, read aloud while she touched herself lazy, his cage already in place.
"Wider," he managed, voice gravel. She glanced back, parting her legs just so, fingers slick with oil tracing her length, dipping along the seam until she shivered. "Christ, Kevin... I'm aching for him. Thicker than you, remember? That stretch last time—it lingers."
The memory flooded him: her return in the dead of night, thighs slick, straddling him wordless, her taste mingled with his as he cleaned her slow, his cage dripping frustration onto the sheets until she freed him, letting the ruin take him.
She rose, sucking her fingers clean with a slow swirl, eyes on his. "Tastes like us, doesn't it? Now, the rest." The corset waited on the bed, satin black and laced tight. He stood on shaking legs, the cage swaying heavy, balls still humming from her touch, and helped her into it, fingers fumbling the ties until her waist pulled narrow, breasts lifted high, edges of her areolas teasing the lace. Garters next, his hands on her thighs, brushing close to her heat—wet now, the air thick with it—until she was sheathed in silk stockings, legs endless.
"Higher," she breathed as he rolled the fabric up, his face near enough to her core that her scent wrapped around him, musky and sweet. He nuzzled, desperate, but she held him back after a heartbeat, fingers in his hair. "Later. Makeup now."
He sank down, the cage a relentless pulse, balls tender against the sheets. She painted herself deliberate: shadow smudging her eyes to smoke, liner sharp, lashes full. Lips last—deep red, glossy, blown soft at the mirror. "Think he'll kiss these slow? Or just claim my mouth while his fingers find me in the car?"
The thought twisted in him: her in that Audi, dress rucked up, his hand between her thighs, the sounds wet and urgent over the road's hum. "Both," he whispered. "All of it."
Perfume next—amber deep, misted between her breasts, her neck, daringly low. The dress slipped on like sin, clinging to every line, short enough to promise glimpses. Stilettos, and she was transformed, towering, lethal. Her phone buzzed: Marcus. *Ready to ruin you. Wet?* She read it laughing soft, replying: *Dripping. Caged hubby's watching. He'll taste you later.*
The line hit like a breath held too long. She bent to him, kiss starting tender, deepening to share her taste, her hand trailing down to tug the cage light, then cup his sore balls, squeezing just enough to draw a hiss. "Stay desperate for me. Leaking, locked, mine."
The door shut, and silence crashed in, broken only by his uneven breaths, the cage's faint clink. Seven-forty-five. Dinner first—wine flowing, his hand creeping higher under the table until she shifted, needy. Kevin paced, cage brushing thighs, each step pulling at his tenderness, a walk that was half torment, half thrill. Scotch poured, untouched; phone checked endless: her text, *His fingers on my knee. So wet for you both.* The photo—bathroom mirror, dress lifted, her fingers parting lace to show her swollen want. He dropped to the rug, grinding helpless, the friction mocking, balls too raw for more than a wince.
Eleven came, and he was frayed—sweat-damp, balls heavy and bruised-purple under the skin, pre-cum trailing cool down his legs in a steady, shameful drip that cooled against his skin. The house felt too still, too empty without her heat beside him, the bed a vast, rumpled accusation of her absence. He climbed onto it fully now, sheets still warm from where she'd sat, her scent clinging faint like a ghost. On his back at first, staring at the ceiling's shadows, but that did nothing to ease the coil tightening low in his belly. The cage bit with every futile twitch, his trapped length leaking more, the slickness seeping through the bars to pool sticky on his thigh.
He rolled to his side, then his stomach, hips pressing down against the mattress in a slow, instinctive grind—nothing but dull pressure, the steel unyielding, turning need into a deeper frustration that made his breath come short. "Fuck," he muttered into the pillow, her pillow, inhaling the last traces of her shampoo. It wasn't enough. His hand drifted back, hesitant at first, fingers tracing the crease of his ass, the skin there sensitive from neglect, from the way she sometimes teased him there in quieter moments. Tonight, though, it felt like permission—or desperation—whichever came first.
He slicked his fingers with the mess from his cage, the pre-cum warm and thin, and circled slow, pressing against the tight ring until it gave just enough to let one tip in. A low hum built in his throat, the intrusion foreign but familiar, a stretch that echoed the fantasies she'd planted earlier. Deeper now, the pad of his finger finding that hidden swell inside, rubbing tentative circles that sent sparks up his spine, a pressure that built like distant thunder. His hips rocked forward into the bed, back onto his hand, the rhythm clumsy but insistent, chasing that elusive edge where pleasure crested without spilling over.
And the images came unbidden, vivid as if he were there—Marcus's loft, all clean lines and low light, the bed's iron frame creaking under their weight. Moira on her knees first, that red mouth stretched wide around him, her tongue working the underside while her hands braced on his thighs, nails digging in as he fed her more, deeper, until her eyes watered and her throat fluttered. Kevin's finger crooked harder inside himself, pressing that spot until his breath hitched, imagining the wet sounds she'd make, the way she'd pull back gasping, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his thick shaft—thicker than his, veined and heavy, the head flushed dark with the same need that gripped Kevin now.
He added a second finger, the burn sharp and real, scissoring slow to open himself further, the fullness mimicking what he pictured next: Marcus hauling her up, bending her over the bed's edge, her dress shoved high, stockings laddered from his grip. Her ass presented, cheeks spread by those big hands, and then—God—the slide of him, blunt and insistent, parting her, sinking in inch by unrelenting inch. Kevin's free hand fisted the sheets, his fingers thrusting now, deeper, faster, curling to hit that gland with every push, the pressure coiling tight in his core. He could almost hear her— that broken moan she made when something filled her just right, her back arching, breasts swaying heavy as Marcus bottomed out, hips flush against her, holding there a beat to let her adjust to the stretch.
Sweat beaded on his skin, dripping down his sides as he chased it, hips bucking erratic, the cage grinding cold against the mattress with each forward snap. In his mind, Marcus moved then—slow at first, pulling back until just the head caught her rim, then slamming home, the slap of skin loud and rhythmic, her body jolting forward with every thrust. "Take it," he'd growl, voice rough like gravel, one hand tangling in her hair to yank her head back, the other spanking her thigh red. Moira's cries would fill the room, raw and pleading—"Harder, yes, like that"—her walls clenching around him, milking him deeper, her clit untouched but throbbing from the friction alone.
Kevin's fingers plunged frantic now, three this time, the stretch bordering on too much, burning sweet as he rubbed that inner spot relentless, building toward something—release, ruin, anything. His balls drew up tight, the bruised ache from her slaps flaring hot, adding a layer of edge that made his vision blur. He pictured the peak: Marcus's rhythm faltering, hips stuttering as he buried deep one last time, spilling hot and thick inside her, pulse after pulse flooding her until it seeped out around him, creamy trails down her thighs. Moira shattering with him, her body seizing, that gush of her own that marked her lost to it all.
The pressure crested then, a white-hot wave crashing through him— not the sharp burst he craved, but a slow, leaking spill, his caged cock dribbling weak spurts against the bars, soaking the sheets in pathetic warmth. No full explosion, just the ghost of one, leaving him shuddering, fingers still buried deep, breath ragged and unsated. The denial hit harder in the after, a hollow throb that made tears prick his eyes, his body collapsing heavy into the mattress. He withdrew slow, the emptiness almost worse, curling around the ache like it was all he had left of her.
Fantasies spun relentless even then: her on her knees in his loft, lips stretched around him, throat working, tears smearing her makeup as he gripped her hair. "Good girl," Marcus growling low, "better than your locked man could dream."
Then her on the bed, legs wide, his mouth devouring her until she shattered, soaking him. His entry—slow at first, then fierce, her body yielding, breasts swaying with each deep push, her nails scoring his back. "More," she'd gasp, lost. "Fill me like he can't." And the end—his roar as he spilled hot and endless inside her, her clench milking every drop, excess seeping warm down her skin.
One-seventeen, the key in the lock jolted him upright, cage slick, balls a deep throb. Her heels tapped uneven, one lost already. Door open: her, disheveled glory—hair a tangle, lips bruised, dress slipping one shoulder, neck blooming purple under his mark.
"Missed this?" she murmured, voice thick with afterglow, shedding the last heel, crossing to him with that sway. Close, the night's evidence wrapped her—sex-sweat and strange cologne, thighs gleaming sticky. Dress hiked, thong askew, her core puffy, traced with white that cooled slow.
He knelt up, cage heavy, balls protesting. "Everything. Please, Moira—let me have you. Unlock."
Her grin flashed wild, pushing him flat, straddling his chest, key glinting. Dress bunched at her waist, stockings torn at the thighs. "Started at dinner—pasta shared, his fingers at my lips, promising more. Car ride? He opened me with three fingers, deep and curling, while I took him in my mouth at stops. Swallowed him down, thick and warm, some spilling messy on my skin."
She eased forward, heat hovering near his mouth, scent crashing over him—hers, sharp and sweet, laced with his salt. A drop clung to her thigh; his tongue caught it, the flavor bursting raw on his tastebuds, pulling a moan from deep. She settled then, grinding soft. "His place... tore the lace off, mouth on me like he'd starve without. Tongue everywhere, fingers hitting that spot until I broke, flooding him. Twice, before he slid in."
Her fingers knotted in his hair, guiding. "So full, Kevin—long, thick, pressing places you tease but don't reach. Missionary slow, his weight pinning, mouth on my breasts until they stung. Whispered I was his now, laughed when I said you'd earned these marks with your cage... and my hand on your balls."
He surged up, nose to her clit, tongue plunging into the slick ruin—swollen folds giving way, his seed thick and plentiful, coating his mouth as he delved, swallowing the mingled heat. The cage bit fierce, balls aching sharp, but he chased it, lapping her depths, circling the tender ring where it trailed lower.
"Doggy after," she panted, rocking harder, breaths fracturing. "Bent me over, hand in my hair, spanking until I burned, calling me yours to share. Came apart clenching him, and he followed—hot pulses deep, so much it slipped free, his fingers holding it in all the way home."
She smeared him now, face painted with them both, his tongue tireless on her clit, her ass, drawing shudders. "Clean it all, love. Feel what he left in your wife." The key dangled; she teased it near. "Beg, while you taste."
"Unlock me—please, let it out," he gasped, muffled.
Her release hit hard, thighs trembling, fresh warmth spilling as she ground through it, soaking him. Fumbling the key home, the click freed him—his length springing rigid, balls unleashing in heavy spurts across his skin, the slap's echo making it shatter deeper, waves crashing untouched.
She slumped beside him, bodies tangling, his face damp against her thigh. Her fingers carded his hair, kiss soft on his brow, key warm now between them. "My good man. Until next."
In the hush, her pulse steady under his cheek, Kevin felt it all—the raw give of her to another, the fierce reclaim in her return. Sleep pulled them under, dreams already stirring of the next touch, the next lock, the endless pull between.
