Chris plunged his hands into the steaming dishwater, letting the heat prickle his skin as he searched for the rough texture of a sponge beneath the suds. The water level sank and rose in tiny waves while his fingers probed the bottom of the sink, catching on the sharp edges of forgotten utensils. Already, faint sounds drifted from down the hall - a feminine giggle, a deeper chuckle, the soft creak of bedsprings starting their familiar rhythm.

He focused on the plate before him, scrubbing at a stubborn spot of dried marinara sauce. The remnants of their dinner - his cooking, as always - clung stubbornly to the ceramic surface. His wedding ring clinked against the porcelain as he worked, a metallic reminder that seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment. The sauce finally gave way under his vigorous scrubbing, breaking apart into red clouds that dissipated in the cloudy water.

A sharp gasp echoed from the bedroom, followed by a low masculine growl that made Chris's stomach clench. He recognized that sound - Marcus warming up, getting into his rhythm. The bedsprings' tempo increased, accompanied by the soft slap of flesh meeting flesh. Chris's fingers tightened around the sponge, wringing out cloudy droplets that ran down his forearms.

"Oh god, Marcus." Sandy's voice carried clearly through the partially open bedroom door. "Your cock feels so good inside me!"

Chris's breath caught in his throat as he reached for another plate, nearly dropping it when it slipped through his soapy fingers. He caught it just in time, the clatter of dishes providing a mundane counterpoint to the increasingly passionate sounds emanating from down the hall. His pants grew uncomfortably tight as Sandy's moans rose in pitch and intensity.

The bedroom door had been left slightly ajar - deliberately, he knew. It was part of the ritual, part of his role in these encounters. As he worked his way through the stack of dishes, Chris couldn't help but glance down the hallway. Through the gap, he caught flashes of movement: Marcus's broad shoulders flexing with each thrust, Sandy's pale legs wrapped around his waist, their bodies moving together in a primal dance that made Chris's mouth go dry.

"Fuck me harder with that big black cock!" Sandy cried out, her voice thick with desire. "God, you're so much bigger than my husband!"

Chris fumbled with a handful of silverware, metal clattering against the bottom of the sink. His face burned, but he couldn't deny the way his cock strained against his zipper. He plunged his hands deeper into the water, letting the heat distract him from his arousal. The water had grown lukewarm, the suds dissipating to reveal murky depths below.

Marcus's deep voice carried through the walls, confident and commanding. "That's right, take it all. Show your husband what a real man feels like."

Another glimpse through the doorway showed Marcus's muscular black body driving into Sandy, her blonde hair spread across the pillows like a fan. Chris could see her face contorted in pleasure, her lips parted in a silent scream. He quickly looked away, focusing on a particularly stubborn bit of cheese stuck to a fork.

The sounds from the bedroom grew more intense - the headboard now thumping rhythmically against the wall, Sandy's cries becoming more desperate and primal. Chris's hands trembled as he rinsed the last few utensils, his motions mechanical and practiced. The drying rack was nearly full, dishes arranged in perfect rows like soldiers standing at attention.

"Tell me whose pussy this is," Marcus demanded, his voice carrying clearly through the apartment.

"Yours!" Sandy gasped. "It's all yours, Marcus!"

Chris dried his hands on a dish towel, his movements slow and deliberate. His erection pressed uncomfortably against his jeans as he arranged the last few items in the drying rack. The kitchen was spotless now, everything in its place, while down the hall, his wife surrendered herself to another man's pleasure. He remained rooted in place, listening to the symphony of their passion, knowing his next tasks awaited him. The mop handle stood in the corner like a silent sentinel, ready for his trembling hands.

The mop made soft swooshing sounds against the tile as Chris worked in methodical strokes, trying to lose himself in the simple back-and-forth rhythm. Each pass left gleaming trails of moisture that caught the kitchen's fluorescent light, while the bedroom's increasing volume made his hands shake on the wooden handle.

He started in the corner furthest from the hallway, working in careful squares across the floor. The mop's cotton strands spread like fingers across the tile, gathering crumbs and dust into damp clumps. From the bedroom came the unmistakable sound of flesh meeting flesh, faster now, more urgent. Sandy's moans had taken on a desperate edge that made Chris's whole body tingle with unwanted arousal.

"That's it, take that black cock," Marcus's voice carried clearly through the walls. "Show your husband what a real man can do to you."

Chris's glasses slipped down his nose as he bent to scrub at a stubborn spot near the refrigerator. Sweat beaded on his forehead, whether from the physical exertion or his growing arousal, he couldn't be sure. His wedding ring caught the light as he adjusted his grip on the mop handle, the metal band a constant reminder of his position - husband, yet not quite.

The wet slap of bodies grew louder, accompanied by the creaking protests of their bed frame. Chris found his mop strokes unconsciously matching the rhythm floating down the hallway. Back and forth, in and out, each movement punctuated by Sandy's increasingly vocal pleasure.

"Oh god, Marcus! You're so deep... so much bigger... fuck!" Sandy's words dissolved into incoherent moans that made Chris's cock throb painfully in his jeans.

He wrung out the mop head with more force than necessary, watching dirty water spiral down the utility sink's drain. His hands trembled as he dunked the mop back into the bucket, splashing water onto his shoes. The clean scent of pine cleaner couldn't mask the musky aroma of sex that was beginning to permeate the apartment.

"Tell me whose pussy this is now," Marcus commanded, his voice dropping to a growl that made Chris's stomach clench.

"Yours!" Sandy cried out. "All yours! Only yours!"

Chris's mop moved faster now, almost frantic in its pace. Sweat ran down his back, soaking through his t-shirt as he attacked invisible stains with mounting intensity. His glasses continued to slide down his nose, but he couldn't spare a hand to push them back up. The floor gleamed beneath his efforts, reflecting the overhead lights like a mirror.

The sounds from the bedroom reached a fever pitch. The headboard slammed against the wall in a steady rhythm now, each impact making the shared wall vibrate. Sandy's cries had become primal, animalistic - sounds Chris had never been able to draw from her himself. His hands clenched white-knuckled around the mop handle as Marcus's deep voice continued its litany of dominance.

"Take it all, you white slut," Marcus growled. "Show your cleaning boy what a real fucking looks like."

Chris's motions became almost mechanical, his body operating on autopilot while his mind filled with the sounds of his wife's pleasure. The floor was spotless now, probably cleaner than it had ever been, but still he worked. Each stroke of the mop matched the tempo of Marcus's thrusts, each splash of water in the bucket echoed Sandy's gasps and moans.

His own breathing had grown ragged, his erection painfully confined in his jeans. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the freshly mopped floor, creating tiny droplets that he quickly wiped away. The physical labor of cleaning provided an outlet for his conflicted arousal, his shame, his excitement - all of it channelled into making the kitchen floor shine like polished glass.

"God, Marcus, don't stop!" Sandy's voice cracked with desperation. "I'm so close... please... harder!"

Chris finally stopped mopping, his chest heaving as he leaned against the handle. The kitchen floor gleamed perfectly, not a streak or spot in sight. He had done his job well, just as Marcus was doing his. The thought sent another jolt of arousal through his body, making him grip the mop handle tighter as the sounds of passion continued to echo through the apartment.

Chris moved through the living room with practiced efficiency, his dusting cloth whisking over surfaces that already gleamed. The wooden box on the bookshelf drew his eye like a magnet - its polished surface reflecting the afternoon light, its contents a physical record of his submission. Each trophy inside marked another afternoon like this one, another session of cleaning while Marcus claimed what was his.

The thumping against the shared wall had grown more intense, each impact sending tiny vibrations through the picture frames Chris carefully wiped clean. Sandy's cries had taken on a desperate edge he recognized - she was getting close. His hands shook slightly as he worked his way toward the mantle, knowing another trophy would soon join the collection.

"Fuck yes, Marcus!" Sandy's voice carried clearly through the wall. "Don't stop... Please don't stop!"

Chris picked up the wooden box with trembling hands, his cleaning cloth moving in small circles across its surface. The box was beautifully crafted, with brass hinges and a small lock - a gift from Marcus, of course. Inside lay used condoms, each one carefully preserved as proof of Marcus's dominance, of Chris's submission, of Sandy's pleasure.

Marcus's rhythmic thrusting caused the wall to shake harder now, making the pictures rattle in their frames. Chris quickly steadied a photo of his and Sandy's wedding day before it could fall. His own smiling face looked back at him, frozen in a moment before Marcus had entered their lives. Before he had discovered this new role, this new way of serving.

"This pussy belongs to me," Marcus growled, his voice deep and commanding. "Tell him, tell your husband who owns you now."

"You do!" Sandy gasped between moans. "You own my pussy, Marcus! You own me!"

Chris's cleaning became more frantic, matching the intensity from the bedroom. He polished the same surfaces repeatedly, trying to lose himself in the mundane task while his cock strained against his zipper. The box sat heavy in his hands, soon to receive another testament to his inadequacy, another symbol of his place in this arrangement.

The sounds reached a crescendo - Sandy's high-pitched keening mixed with Marcus's deep groans. The wall shook with the force of their coupling, and Chris nearly dropped the box as a particularly loud thrust made the entire room vibrate. His breathing came in short gasps, matching the rhythm of their impending climax.

"I'm coming!" Sandy screamed. "Oh god, Marcus, I'm coming!"

Marcus roared his triumph, a primal sound of dominance and satisfaction that made Chris's knees weak. The sudden silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing and satisfied murmurs from the bedroom. Chris quickly returned the box to its place of honor on the mantle, adjusting it to sit perfectly centered.

His hands shook as he pretended to dust the coffee table, straining his ears for movement from the bedroom. The soft rustle of sheets, quiet whispers, the creak of the bed as weight shifted - each sound made his heart beat faster with anticipation and anxiety. He knew what came next, knew his final task of the afternoon approached.