The pine-scented cleaning spray stung Chris's nostrils as he worked the mop across the hardwood floor, his muscles aching from an hour of domestic labor. The bedroom door creaked open behind him, and he didn't need to turn around to know it was Sandy - her presence always sent a shiver down his spine these days, a mixture of devotion and dread that made his stomach clench.

When he finally looked up, the sight of her nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. Sandy stood in the doorway, her blonde hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, her body barely contained by Marcus's white dress shirt. The fabric hung loose on her frame but clung in all the wrong - or right - places, depending on one's perspective. Her skin glowed with a post-coital flush, and tiny beads of sweat still glistened on her collarbones. Chris's glasses slipped down his nose as he straightened up, and he pushed them back with trembling fingers.

"Finished with the floors?" Sandy's voice carried that particular tone she only used after being with Marcus - satisfied, imperious, almost drunk with power. She took a few steps toward Chris, her bare feet leaving slight impressions on the damp floor. The shirt rode up with each movement, revealing glimpses of her thighs that made Chris's throat go dry.

"Almost done," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. The mop handle felt slick in his sweaty palms. "Just this last section by the-"

"Good," she cut him off, extending her hand. Between her fingers dangled a used condom, its contents still warm enough to be visible through the latex. "Because we have something for your collection, hubby."

The familiar surge of shame and arousal hit Chris like a physical blow. His hands trembled as he reached for the rubber, careful not to spill any of its contents. The material felt slick and warm against his fingers, and the musky scent of sex cut through the artificial pine smell of his cleaning supplies.

A deep chuckle from the bedroom doorway made Chris's head snap up. Marcus stood there, his muscular black body a study in power and confidence, wearing nothing but a pair of tight boxer briefs. He leaned against the frame with the casual ease of someone completely at home in another man's house, his dark eyes glittering with amusement.

"Look at him shake," Marcus commented, his voice rich with satisfaction. "Like a scared little rabbit, isn't he, Sandy?"

Sandy's fingers found their way into Chris's hair, gripping just tight enough to sting. "He knows his place, don't you, baby?" She tugged his head back, forcing him to look up at her. The angle made his glasses slip again, but he didn't dare move to adjust them.

The condom felt impossibly heavy in Chris's hand, a physical manifestation of his submission. Marcus pushed off from the doorframe and stalked closer, each step deliberate and predatory. His presence seemed to fill the room, making the space feel smaller, more confined. Chris's knees weakened, and he found himself sinking to the floor without being told.

"That's right," Marcus purred, coming to stand beside Sandy. "Right where you belong, cleanup boy." His hand settled on Sandy's waist, possessive and casual, fingers splaying across the white fabric of his own shirt.

Chris knelt there on the damp floor, the pine scent mixing with the heady aroma of sex and sweat. His world had narrowed to these sensations: the cool hardwood under his knees, the warm latex in his hand, Sandy's fingers in his hair, and Marcus's overwhelming presence. The shame burned in his chest, but lower down, his body betrayed him with an answering heat that he couldn't deny.

Sandy's grip tightened in his hair. "Well?" she prompted, her voice thick with anticipation. "What are you waiting for?"

The condom swayed slightly in Chris's trembling grip, its contents shifting in a way that made his stomach flip. He knew what came next. They all did. It was a dance they'd performed many times before, but the humiliation never lessened. If anything, it grew sharper, more acute with each repetition.

Marcus moved behind Sandy, his hands sliding around her waist as he watched Chris over her shoulder. The contrast of his dark skin against the white shirt was striking, a visual reminder of everything Chris wasn't. "Maybe he needs some encouragement," Marcus suggested, his teeth gleaming in the afternoon light. "Some proper motivation."

Chris's glasses had fogged slightly from his quickened breathing, but he could still see their expressions clearly enough - Sandy's mixture of dominance and arousal, Marcus's amused contempt. The weight of their combined attention pressed down on him like a physical force, and he felt himself shrinking under it, becoming smaller, less significant.

The mop lay forgotten against the wall, water slowly pooling around its head. The cleaning supplies stood scattered around him like abandoned soldiers, and the pine scent seemed to mock him now, domestic servitude giving way to sexual servitude in an endless cycle of submission.

Sandy's free hand traced along his jaw, her touch deceptively gentle. "Time to earn your keep, honey," she whispered, but her eyes were hard as diamonds. "Show us what a good husband you can be."

Chris swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. The condom dangled from his fingers like a sentence, a judgment, a reward - all depending on who was doing the looking. And his wife and their bull was looking at him now, waiting for him to fulfill his role in their careful arrangement.

The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. In those shadows, Chris saw himself as they saw him - small, servile, necessary but subordinate. His hands still trembled, but his grip on the condom remained secure. He couldn't afford to spill a drop. They wouldn't tolerate that kind of waste.

Marcus's laugh rolled through the room like thunder. "Look at him, trying to work up his courage." His hands wandered over Sandy's body possessively. 

The hardwood floor bit into Chris's knees as Sandy's fingers twisted deeper into his hair. The latex of the condom gleamed in the afternoon light, a testament to his submission that he couldn't ignore. His stomach churned with a mixture of revulsion and arousal as Sandy forced his head back, making him look up at her face - beautiful, cruel, and absolutely in control.

"You know what to do," she said, her voice thick with anticipation. Her grip tightened, sending sharp pains across his scalp. "Show us what a good cleaning boy you are."

Marcus's deep laugh resonated through the room. "Look at him squirm," he said, moving closer to get a better view. "Can't decide if he wants to run away or beg for more, can he?"

Chris's hands shook as he lifted the condom closer to his face. The bitter scent of latex mixed with the musky aroma of what it contained made his head spin. He could feel the warmth of its contents through the thin material, a reminder of what had transpired in their bedroom just minutes ago.

"Open up," Sandy commanded, using her grip on his hair to position his head exactly how she wanted it. "And don't you dare spill a drop."

His tongue darted out, making first contact with the rubber surface. The taste hit him immediately - bitter latex mixed with salty fluid. His face contorted in disgust, but the bulge in his pants betrayed his body's conflicting response. Sandy noticed and pressed her bare foot against his crotch, adding another layer of humiliation to his already overwhelming situation.

"Look at that," she purred, applying pressure with her toes. "Our little cleanup boy is enjoying his task. Aren't you, honey?"

Chris tried to respond, but his mouth was otherwise occupied. His tongue traced along the length of the condom, collecting every trace of fluid he could find. Each lick sent waves of shame through his body, but Sandy's grip in his hair left him no choice but to continue.

Marcus crouched down beside them, his muscular presence overwhelming at this close range. "Make sure he gets it all," he instructed Sandy. "Every last drop I left in there." His hand reached out to grip Chris's jaw, forcing him to look up. "You can taste how much your wife enjoyed herself, can't you, boy?"

Tears pricked at the corners of Chris's eyes as he nodded, the motion restricted by the multiple hands controlling his head. His glasses had slipped again, but there was nothing he could do about it. The taste grew stronger as he began sucking the fresh, thick sperm out from the inside of the thin rubber.

"Good boy," Sandy cooed, but her voice held more mockery than praise. Her foot continued its torment against his groin, making him squirm with unwanted pleasure. "Look at him, Marcus. So dedicated to his duties."

The wedding photo on the wall seemed to stare down at the scene, a silent witness to his degradation. Chris caught sight of it from the corner of his eye - him and Sandy on their happiest day, both smiling, both unaware of how their marriage would evolve. The contrast between then and now made his chest tight with emotion.

"Fucking pathetic," Marcus chuckled. "But useful, I'll give him that. Best cleanup boy I've ever had."

Chris gagged slightly as the condom pressed deeper into his mouth, but Sandy's grip prevented him from pulling back. "Don't you dare stop," she warned, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You'll clean every inch of that rubber, won't you, baby?"

His response was muffled, but the renewed vigor of his tongue answered for him. The taste had become almost unbearable, but the alternative - disappointing them - was worse. His knees ached against the hardwood floor, and his scalp burned where Sandy gripped his hair, but these discomforts only added to his arousal.

"Tell him what we did," Marcus suggested to Sandy, his eyes never leaving Chris's face. "Tell him exactly how I filled that condom he's cleaning."

Sandy's laugh was musical but cruel. "You want to know, don't you?" she teased, forcing Chris's head back further. "Want to know how Marcus bent me over our bed? How he made me scream louder than you ever could?"

Chris's tongue faltered in its task, earning him a sharp tug on his hair. The wedding photo continued its silent judgment as Sandy described in explicit detail how Marcus had taken her, how she had begged for more, how she had cum again and again while Chris cleaned the house below.

"Don't stop," Sandy reminded him, jerking his head back to the task at hand. "Every drop, remember? That's your purpose now."

His tongue resumed its work, tracing every inch of the latex surface. The taste had become familiar now, almost expected, though no less humiliating. His arousal strained against his pants, pressed firmly by Sandy's foot, a physical reminder of his body's betrayal.

"Good boy," Marcus praised mockingly, his hand moving from Chris's jaw to pat his cheek condescendingly. "Such a good little cleanup boy. You should be thankful, you know. Not every husband gets to taste the proof of their wife's pleasure."

The condom was nearly clean, the latex glistening with his saliva instead of Marcus's release. His tongue ached, but he didn't dare stop until given permission.

Sandy's grip finally loosened slightly, though she didn't release him entirely. "I think that's enough," she declared, examining the cleaned condom. "What do you think, Marcus? Did he do a good job?"

Marcus made a show of inspecting Chris's work, turning the condom this way and that in the afternoon light. "Not bad," he admitted with a smirk. "Though he could have shown more enthusiasm."

Chris's breath came in ragged gasps as he knelt there, his mouth tasting of latex and submission. His glasses hung precariously from the end of his nose, and his hair was a mess from Sandy's grip. The wedding photo continued its silent vigil, a reminder of what he had been and what he had become.

"Time for the trophy case," Sandy announced, her foot finally releasing its torment of his groin. "Ready for the next part of your duties, cleanup boy?"

Chris's knees burned against the hardwood as he crawled toward the bookshelf, Sandy's grip still firm in his hair. The polished wooden box waited above like a shrine to his submission, its brass hinges catching the afternoon light. Each movement forward felt like a confession, an acknowledgment of his place in their careful hierarchy.

"Careful now," Sandy murmured, guiding him with painful precision. "Wouldn't want you to drop our little trophy, would we?"

Marcus followed behind them, his bare feet silent on the floor but his presence heavy in the air. "Look at him crawling," he commented. "Like he was born for it."

The box loomed closer with each movement forward. Chris could see his reflection distorted in its polished surface - glasses askew, face flushed, hair mussed from Sandy's grip. The cleaned condom dangled from his trembling fingers like a flag of surrender.

Sandy forced him to sit back on his heels. "Go ahead," she instructed, her voice thick with satisfaction. "Open it up. Show Marcus our collection."

Chris's hands shook as he reached for the box. The brass hinges squeaked their familiar protest as he lifted the lid, revealing the contents within. Several used condoms lay arranged in neat rows, each one in various states of decay - testament to previous encounters, previous submissions, previous clean-ups.

"Count them," Sandy commanded, twisting his hair sharply. "Out loud. And don't forget to include the new one."

Marcus moved closer, his muscular frame casting a shadow over Chris and the box. "Yes, let's hear the total. I'm curious myself how many times I've filled your wife while you watched and cleaned."

Chris's voice trembled as he began counting. "One," he whispered, pointing to the oldest condom, its contents now dried and discolored. "Two... three..." Each number felt like another admission of his position, another acknowledgment of his role in their arrangement.

"Louder," Sandy demanded, yanking his head back. "We want to hear every number clearly."

"Four," Chris continued, his voice stronger but breaking slightly. "Five... six..." The condoms told a story - each one a night of listening to Sandy's pleasure, each one a morning spent on his knees.

Marcus chuckled deeply. "Look how he blushes with each number. Still shy after all this time?"

"Seven... eight... nine..." The newer ones still retained their shape better, the rubber more pliable, the contents more recently preserved. Chris's stomach churned as he remembered cleaning each one, the taste of latex still fresh on his tongue.

Sandy's grip tightened impossibly further. "And the new one makes...?"

"Ten," Chris finished, his voice barely above a whisper. "Ten total."

"Good boy," Sandy praised, but her tone held more mockery than warmth. "Now add it to the collection. Carefully."

Chris's hands trembled as he placed the freshly cleaned condom alongside its predecessors. The rubber seemed to gleam differently than the others, still warm from his mouth, still fresh from its original purpose. He arranged it precisely, making sure it lay parallel to the others.

"Perfect," Marcus commented, his hand coming to rest on Sandy's waist. "A proper trophy case for a proper cuck, wouldn't you say, Sandy?"

Sandy hummed in agreement, her fingers finally loosening slightly in Chris's hair. "Close it up, baby. Nice and gentle."

The brass hinges creaked again as Chris lowered the lid, sealing away the evidence of their arrangement. But the box remained there on the book shelf, prominent and impossible to ignore, a constant reminder of his position in their household.

"Now then," Sandy said, using her grip to turn Chris's face toward them. "What do you say to Marcus for contributing to your collection?"

Chris swallowed hard, his throat still tasting of latex. "Thank you," he managed, the words feeling thick in his mouth.

"Thank you, what?" Marcus prompted, his smile wide and predatory.

"Thank you, Sir," Chris corrected himself, his cheeks burning with fresh humiliation.

Sandy and Marcus exchanged a satisfied look above him, their bodies close together, their posture relaxed and victorious. Chris remained on his knees before them, the polished box looming behind him on the shelf, containing its degrading treasures.

The afternoon sun continued its slow descent, casting long shadows across the room. In those shadows, their arrangement felt permanent, eternal - Sandy's dominance, Marcus's power, Chris's submission. The wedding photo watched it all in silence, a reminder of what had been and what had become.

"Good boy," Sandy whispered, finally releasing his hair. "Now, why don't you go finish mopping the floor?"

Chris's knees ached as he remained in position, waiting for permission to move. The box behind him felt like a presence of its own, its contents a physical reminder of his place in their careful hierarchy. He was their cleaning boy, their submissive husband, their trophy collector - and the box above him would continue to fill with proof of that fact, one at a time.