Chris's eyes peeled open at the first hint of dawn, his back screaming in protest from a night spent contorted on the too-small couch. The cushions, once plush and inviting, had become instruments of torture during the night, leaving him with knots in his shoulders and a dull ache that pulsed down his spine. He winced as he attempted to sit up, the punishment for another night banished from his marital bed—a bed where he knew his wife had spent the night in another man's arms.

The house sat in that peculiar silence that belonged only to early mornings, the kind of quiet that seemed to amplify every creak of his joints as he staggered to his feet. Chris rubbed his lower back, massaging the stiffened muscles with fingers that knew exactly where the pain lived. It wasn't the first night he'd spent on the couch, and it wouldn't be the last. Not since Marcus had entered their lives.

In the kitchen, Chris moved with the resigned efficiency of routine. He filled the kettle and set it on the stove, the metallic click of the gas ignition breaking the stillness. While he waited for the water to boil, he measured coffee grounds into the French press—dark and potent, the way he preferred it. The rich, earthy aroma began to fill the kitchen, promising a momentary comfort that his body craved.

Steam billowed from the kettle's spout, and Chris poured the boiling water over the grounds, watching as they bloomed and rose before settling again. The scent intensified, cutting through the morning fog that still clung to his consciousness. He pressed the plunger down with careful precision, then poured the inky liquid into a mug that bore a faded vacation logo from a trip he and Sandy had taken years ago—a memory from before.

Cup in hand, he moved to the window overlooking the neighborhood. The sky was transitioning from charcoal to lavender, with ribbons of orange just beginning to streak above the rooftops of identical suburban houses. Their neighbors' lives were still cloaked in darkness, windows black and driveways empty of movement. Chris sipped his coffee, feeling the bitter liquid burn a path down his throat, wondering how many of those houses harbored secrets like theirs.

His gaze drifted from the window, catching on the framed wedding photo that hung on the wall opposite. Sandy smiled out at him, frozen in time—her face flushed with happiness, blonde hair crowned with small white flowers. Her eyes, crystal blue and brimming with promise, looked directly at the camera—at him—with what he had once believed was undiluted love. His younger self stood beside her, beaming with the confidence of a man who thought he understood what lay ahead.

The pain in Chris's chest had nothing to do with his back. He remembered that day with brutal clarity: the tremor in her voice during their vows, the way her fingers had intertwined with his as they danced, the whispered plans for their future as they fell asleep that night. Back when Sandy was just his, before she became more—before she transformed into the woman who now moaned another man's name in their bed while Chris lay awake downstairs.

His cock twitched against the fabric of his pajama pants, betraying him. The coffee mug trembled slightly in his grasp. This was the dichotomy that tormented and thrilled him: the pure, innocent Sandy of their wedding day and the Sandy who now writhed beneath Marcus's muscular black body, her face contorted in ecstasy that Chris had never been able to give her.

He didn't hate it. That was the truth that gnawed at him in moments like this. The humiliation burned like fire in his veins, but it was a fire that fueled something dark and intoxicating within him.

Setting his mug on the windowsill, Chris moved to the side table where the wooden box sat, innocuous to anyone who didn't know its contents. It was handcrafted, with a polished walnut finish—a box that might have held cigars or cufflinks in another man's home. In the Harrington house, it held something far more precious to Chris.

His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the lid. Inside, laid out in neat rows, were ten used condoms—deflated, tied off, and preserved. Each one represented a night when Marcus had claimed Sandy, each a trophy that Chris had collected and saved like a relic. The latex had dried and hardened over time, but the essence of what they contained remained.

Chris ran his fingers over them, feeling the ridges and contours, remembering exactly how each one had come into his possession. His breathing quickened as he selected one from the collection—the third one, from six weeks ago.

He brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent was faint now, but still detectable—a musky blend of latex, lubricant, and the unmistakable tang of sex. His eyes drifted closed as the memory washed over him.

It had been a Friday night. Chris had prepared dinner for them—for Sandy and Marcus—setting the table with their best dishes and uncorking a bottle of expensive red wine that Marcus had brought. Throughout the meal, he had served them, refilling glasses and clearing plates while they conversed as if he were merely staff. He remembered how Marcus had casually placed his hand on Sandy's thigh, sliding it higher as the meal progressed, how Sandy's cheeks had flushed with wine and anticipation.

Later, when they'd moved to the bedroom, Chris had been instructed to sit in the corner chair—close enough to see everything but far enough away to understand his place. He had watched as Marcus peeled away Sandy's dress, revealing the expensive lingerie she now wore only for her lover. Marcus had taken his time, making Sandy beg for each touch, each kiss.

When Marcus finally rolled on the condom, he had looked directly at Chris, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Watch carefully," he'd said. "This is how a real man fucks a woman."

And Chris had watched, his own cock straining painfully against his pants as Marcus took Sandy in ways that Chris never had—roughly, confidently, completely. The sounds Sandy made were ones Chris had never heard from her before—desperate, animal noises that seemed to come from some primal place he'd never been able to reach.

When it was over and Sandy lay spent on the bed, Marcus had removed the condom, tied it off, and tossed it casually toward Chris.

"A souvenir," he'd said with a laugh. "Since that's all you're good for."

Chris had caught it, feeling the weight of it in his palm, still warm from their bodies. The humiliation should have crushed him, but instead, he'd felt a perverse pride—he was part of this, even if only as an observer, a collector of evidence.

Chris set that condom down and picked up another—the seventh one. This had been collected after a particularly intense night when Marcus had pushed boundaries further than before. Chris remembered entering the bedroom after they'd finished, finding Sandy tied spread-eagled on the bed, her limbs trembling with exhaustion. Marcus had pointed to the used condom on the nightstand.

"Clean up after me," he'd ordered, and Chris had obeyed, carefully collecting the latex vessel filled with the essence of the man who had replaced him.

That night, Sandy had looked at Chris with a mixture of pity and something else—perhaps gratitude, or understanding. She hadn't spoken, but her eyes had communicated volumes. She knew what this did to him, how it both destroyed and rebuilt him. And she allowed it to continue because some part of her recognized that in this strange arrangement, all three of them found what they needed.

Chris's fingers now traced the outline of that seventh trophy, his cock fully hard beneath his pajamas. He didn't touch himself—not yet. That wasn't part of the ritual. The box and its contents were for remembering, for reliving. The pleasure and pain would come later.

He placed the condoms back in their precise positions and closed the lid of the box. In those moments, staring at the closed box, Chris felt the full weight of his transformation—from husband to witness, from lover to servant. The degradation should have been unbearable, but it wasn't. It was intoxicating.

His wedding band caught the first true light of morning, sending a small reflection dancing across the wall. Chris twisted it on his finger, feeling the smooth metal glide over his skin. He was still Sandy's husband—on paper, in public, in all the ways that society recognized. But within these walls, he had become something else entirely.

The sounds of movement from upstairs jolted him from his reverie. Sandy and Marcus were awake now. Chris's heart rate accelerated as he realized what came next in this carefully choreographed dance. He had duties to perform, services to render.

He straightened his shoulders, ignoring the persistent ache in his back. Somewhere beneath the humiliation and submission, there was a dark, pulsing satisfaction that he had come to crave more than his own dignity.

Chris was a husband. He was a cuckold. He was a servant.

And deep down, in the most secret chamber of his heart, he was fucking loving it.

Chris snapped back to the present, suddenly aware of his responsibilities. The morning ritual demanded adherence, regardless of his wandering thoughts or painful erection. He moved to the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of eggs and a package of thick-cut bacon—Marcus's preferred breakfast. The routine was ingrained in him now, a dance of servitude he performed without hesitation. The cast-iron pan heated on the stove with a shimmer of oil, ready to transform raw ingredients into an offering for the man who had transformed his marriage.

The bacon hit the hot surface with a violent hiss, curling immediately as fat began to render. Chris arranged six strips in neat rows, watching as they bubbled and popped, filling the kitchen with a rich, smoky aroma. He knew exactly how Marcus liked his bacon—not too crisp, still slightly chewy in the center. It had taken three attempts to get it right the first time, earning him a look of disdain from Marcus and a night banished to the couch.

As the bacon cooked, Chris cracked four eggs into a bowl, noting the vibrant orange of the yolks. Marcus insisted on farm-fresh eggs, sending Chris to the specialty market across town each week to procure them. The whisk moved through the mixture with practiced efficiency, incorporating a splash of heavy cream—another of Marcus's requirements. Not too beaten, just enough to blend the whites and yolks while maintaining texture.

The bacon had rendered enough fat now. Chris flipped each piece with tongs, the pop and sizzle intensifying as the second side made contact with the hot pan. Tiny droplets of grease spattered his wrist, leaving small red marks that would fade within minutes—unlike the marks Marcus left on their lives, which seemed increasingly permanent.

Chris poured the egg mixture into a second pan, watching it spread across the heated surface. With a silicon spatula, he gently pushed the edges inward, creating soft folds of yellow that gradually firmed. The eggs needed constant attention—neglect them for too long and they became rubbery, unappetizing. Marcus had made that abundantly clear six weeks ago when he'd scraped an overcooked breakfast into the trash and informed Chris that mistakes had consequences. That night, Chris had watched from the corner as Marcus had spanked Sandy’s round ass to the point of tears, explaining that her husband's failures required her punishment.

The memory made Chris's hands tremble slightly as he monitored the eggs. They were perfect now—glossy and soft, still slightly wet as Marcus preferred. He removed the bacon, allowing it to drain on a paper towel before arranging it on the warmed plate. The eggs followed, seasoned with just the right amount of freshly ground pepper and flaky sea salt.

As he was placing a sprig of parsley—a touch of color that Marcus hadn't requested but seemed to appreciate—Chris heard it. The first unmistakable moan from upstairs, Sandy's voice pitched higher than in normal conversation. He froze, spatula still in hand, as a second moan followed, then a third, each one growing more urgent.

Chris set the finished plate on a tray, adding silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. His movements were mechanical now, his attention divided between his tasks and the increasing volume from upstairs. The bed springs had joined the chorus, creating a rhythmic creaking that matched the tempo of Sandy's cries.

A deep, masculine grunt penetrated the ceiling—Marcus was fully engaged now. Chris recognized the sounds, could visualize exactly what was happening in their bedroom. His cock throbbed painfully against the confines of his pants, responding to the auditory stimulation despite his attempts to focus on breakfast duty.

Tray in hand, Chris moved toward the stairs.

The sounds of sex grew louder with each step Chris took toward the bedroom. His hands trembled slightly as he balanced the breakfast tray, the silver plate gleaming under the hallway light. The rhythmic creaking of bed springs, Marcus's deep grunts, and Sandy's high-pitched moans formed an unmistakable soundtrack that simultaneously aroused and humiliated him. Chris swallowed hard, his throat dry as paper, knowing exactly what waited for him behind that door—his wife being thoroughly fucked by another man on their marital bed.

He paused outside the door, taking a deep breath to steady himself. The silver tray felt cold against his sweaty palms. Through the thin wood, Sandy's voice reached him, breathless and desperate.

"Oh God... yes... fuck me harder!"

His cock twitched against the fabric of his pajama bottoms. Chris hated himself for it, but he couldn't deny the perverse excitement that flooded his veins. He shifted his weight, adjusting the breakfast he'd so carefully prepared—eggs over easy, crispy bacon, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and toast with blackberry jam, Marcus's favorite.

With one last steadying breath, Chris pushed the door open.

The scene that greeted him seared into his retinas like a brand. Sandy—his Sandy—was on all fours, her blonde hair plastered to her sweat-slicked back as Marcus pounded into her from behind. Her face contorted in ecstasy, mouth hanging open, eyes glazed with lust. Marcus's tall, muscular black frame towered over her pale body, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force as he drove into her with relentless rhythm.

Neither of them stopped when the door opened. If anything, Marcus seemed to thrust harder, making Sandy cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

"Good timing," Marcus said, not missing a beat as his hips slapped against Sandy's ass. His dark eyes locked onto Chris with a predatory gleam.

Chris averted his gaze, but couldn't help stealing glances as he moved toward the rumpled duvet. Sandy's breasts swung freely with each impact, her wedding ring flashing mockingly in the morning light as she clutched at the sheets. The bed—the same bed where Chris had proposed to her five years ago—creaked in protest under Marcus's powerful thrusts.

"You like watching me fuck your wife, don't you?" Marcus smirked, sweat beading on his chiseled chest and abs. “Watching her take a real man's cock?"

Chris was standing with the tray in his hands, admiring the perverted scene of his wife getting fucked doggy style in front of him. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, mingling with the aroma of the freshly cooked breakfast.

"Answer me," Marcus commanded, never breaking his rhythm.

"Yes," Chris whispered, his voice barely audible over the wet slapping sounds.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you." Marcus's voice dripped with cruel amusement.

"Yes, I... I like watching how you fuck her," Chris repeated louder, his face burning with shame and arousal.

Sandy moaned, looking back over her shoulder. Her blue eyes met Chris's for a brief moment, glazed with lust but still recognizable as the woman he'd fallen in love with. The woman who now craved another man's touch more than his.

"Your husband made us breakfast," Marcus told Sandy, yanking her head back by her long blonde hair. "Isn't that sweet of him?"

"So... fucking... sweet," Sandy gasped between thrusts, her words punctuated by Marcus's relentless pace.

Without warning, Marcus suddenly pulled out. Sandy whimpered at the loss, her pussy glistening and red from the pounding it had taken. Chris couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Marcus's massive cock, slick with his wife's juices.

"On your back," Marcus ordered, and Sandy complied instantly, rolling over and spreading her legs wide. Instead of entering her again, Marcus crawled up her body, positioning himself over her face.

"Open up, bitch," he growled, and Sandy obediently parted her lips, her eyes wide with anticipation.

What happened next made Chris's jaw drop. A stream of yellow urine erupted from Marcus's cock, splashing directly into Sandy's waiting mouth. She gulped hungrily, but couldn't keep up with the flow. Hot rivulets spilled from the corners of her lips, running down her chin and neck, soaking into her blonde hair and the sheets beneath her.

"Holy shit," Chris breathed, his hands shook with the tray, unable to look away from the ultimate display of dominance.

Marcus aimed his stream over Sandy's face and breasts, marking her with his scent. She closed her eyes in ecstasy, her hands reaching up to rub the warm liquid into her skin like it was the most expensive perfume. When the stream finally tapered off, she licked her lips and smiled up at Marcus with undisguised adoration.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Chris stood frozen, his cock painfully hard in his pants. The sight of his beautiful wife—the woman who used to be so prim and proper, who'd been raised in a respectable middle-class family, who excelled in everything she did—willingly drinking another man's piss on their marital bed broke something inside him. It was the most degrading, filthy thing he'd ever witnessed... and he couldn't deny how much it turned him on.

Sandy caught his eye and smiled, her face and hair still dripping. "You should see your face right now, babe," she teased, her voice a strange mixture of tenderness and cruelty.

Marcus laughed, his hand wrapping around his still-hard cock. "Your wife's a filthy whore, isn't she? Look how much she loves it."

And she did. The Sandy that Chris saw before him bore little resemblance to the confident, ambitious woman he'd married. This Sandy was transformed—debased and glorying in it, her blue eyes shining with perverse joy as urine trickled between her breasts.

"Stand right there where I can see you." Marcus barked at Chris, breaking the moment.

Chris stepped to the end of the bed, nearly knocking over the orange juice on the tray in his haste. Marcus had already flipped Sandy over onto her stomach and yanked her hips up, positioning himself behind her.

"Keep your eyes open," Marcus instructed Chris as he lined his cock up with Sandy's entrance. "I want you to see every fucking second of this."

With a powerful thrust, Marcus buried himself to the hilt inside Sandy. She screamed into the pillow, her hands clawing at the urine-soaked sheets. Marcus established a brutal pace, the prone bone position allowing him to dominate her completely. The bed rocked violently beneath them, headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust.

"This is what your wife needs," Marcus growled at Chris, who stood rigidly at attention, breakfast tray clutched in his trembling hands. "Something your little dick could never give her."

Sandy's face was turned to the side, allowing Chris to see every emotion that crossed it—pain, pleasure, surrender, ecstasy. Her mascara ran down her cheeks, mixing with the remnants of Marcus's urine. Her lips formed words that Chris couldn't hear over the slapping of flesh against flesh.

"Look at me," Marcus commanded Chris. "Not her. Me. Watch me fuck your wife."

Chris forced his eyes to meet Marcus's dark, triumphant gaze. The larger man's muscles rippled with each thrust, sweat gleaming on his perfect six-pack abs. The contrast between Marcus's powerful black body and Sandy's pale, yielding form created a tableau of conquest that seared itself into Chris's memory.

"This pussy belongs to me now," Marcus declared, punctuating his words with particularly brutal thrusts that made Sandy wail. "Say it, Sandy. Tell your husband who owns this cunt."

"You do!" Sandy cried out, her voice breaking. "Your cock... your pussy... all yours!"

Chris gripped the tray tighter, his knuckles turning white. The breakfast he'd so carefully prepared sat untouched, witnessing his humiliation alongside him.

Marcus's rhythm grew erratic, his breathing heavier. "I'm going to fill your wife's pussy with my cum," he announced to Chris, never breaking eye contact. "And you're going to thank me for it."

"Th-thank you," Chris stammered, his own cock leaking pre-cum into his pajama bottoms without even being touched.

With a primal roar that seemed to shake the very walls, Marcus thrust one final time, burying himself as deep as possible inside Sandy. His body tensed, every muscle outlined in sharp relief as he emptied himself inside her. Sandy's back arched, her own orgasm triggered by the feeling of being filled.

"Yes, yes, yes!" she screamed, her body convulsing beneath Marcus's weight.

The room fell silent except for their heavy breathing. Chris stood still as a statue, the breakfast tray, his shield and his burden. Marcus pulled out slowly, his softening cock glistening with a mixture of his own release and Sandy's arousal. A thick white stream followed, oozing from Sandy's swollen pussy and dripping onto the already-soiled sheets.

"Now that," Marcus said, flopping back onto the pillows with a satisfied grin, "is how you start a morning."

Marcus stretched languidly on the bed, his muscular body glistening with sweat in the morning light. Without ceremony, he reached for the breakfast tray Chris still held in his trembling hands, yanking it away with casual disregard. He stuffed a piece of bacon into his mouth, chewing loudly as his eyes roamed over Sandy's used body, then to Chris's flushed face.

"Not bad," Marcus said, shoveling eggs into his mouth. "These eggs are perfectly cooked. At least you're good for something, right?"

Chris lowered his gaze. "Thank you, sir."

Sandy rolled onto her side, watching Marcus eat with a satisfied smile on her face. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, streaked with sweat and urine, but somehow she still managed to look beautiful. She trailed her fingers over Marcus's muscular thigh, her wedding ring catching the light.

"Don't play with my food," Marcus said, slapping her hand away playfully. He glanced at his watch and cursed. "Shit. I've got that meeting in forty minutes."

He shoved the tray back into Chris's hands, spilling orange juice onto the silver surface. Chris fumbled to catch it, droplets splattering onto the hardwood floor.

"Clean that up," Marcus ordered without looking at him. He swung his powerful legs over the side of the bed and stood, his semi-hard cock swinging heavily between his thighs. "My shoes?"

"Clean and shiny, sir," Chris replied, carefully setting the tray on the dresser and dropping to his knees to wipe the spilled juice with the sleeve of his pajama top.

Marcus strode naked across the room, his presence filling the space with raw masculine energy. He pulled on his boxer briefs, then his tailored slacks, not bothering to clean himself first. The thought of going to his important meeting still smelling of sex and Sandy's juices seemed to please him.

"I’ve also cleaned your coat," Chris offered, still on his knees. "It's hanging by the front door."

Marcus paused in the middle of buttoning his shirt to look at Chris with genuine surprise. "You know, for a pathetic cuck, you're pretty thoughtful." He smiled at Sandy, who was now lazily trailing her fingers through the cooling pool of semen between her thighs.

Sandy smiled proudly. "He's very thorough."

"Make sure all this mess gets cleaned up," Marcus instructed, gesturing broadly to the soiled sheets and the wet spots on the mattress. "And do something about that piss smell. Can't have the bedroom stinking next time I come over."

"Yes, sir," Chris nodded, his eyes following Marcus as he finished dressing. The transformation was remarkable—from naked, primal beast to polished business professional in minutes. His tailored suit accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the expensive fabric making a soft whisper as he moved.

"Get me my tie," Marcus snapped his fingers. "The blue Armani. It's in my overnight bag."

Chris scrambled to the corner where Marcus had carelessly dropped his designer bag the night before. He fumbled through neatly folded clothes until he found the silk tie, carrying it reverently back to Marcus with both hands.

Marcus snatched it without a word and looped it expertly around his neck, adjusting it in the mirror. He slicked back his short black hair with his palms, checking his reflection from multiple angles.

"How do I look?" he asked Sandy, ignoring Chris completely.

"Like a man who just fucked another man's wife senseless," she replied with a wicked grin.

Marcus laughed, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through the room. "That's exactly the look I'm going for." He leaned over the bed and grabbed Sandy's chin roughly, kissing her with bruising force. When he pulled back, his lips were curved in a satisfied smirk. "I'll text you when I'm done with my meeting. Maybe we can have lunch together."

"I'd like that," Sandy purred.

Marcus turned to leave, then paused at the doorway, looking back at Chris. "Thanks for breakfast. You've got some skills in the kitchen, I'll give you that."

Chris's face brightened slightly at the compliment, though he kept his eyes fixed on the floor. "Thank you, sir."

Sandy rolled onto her side, one hand propping up her head as she watched Marcus leave.

Sandy smiled lazily from the bed, enjoying the spectacle of her husband scurrying to serve her lover. She stretched her legs, feeling Marcus's cum trickling between her thighs. The sensation was delicious—a physical reminder of her submission to him and Chris's submission to them both.

With a final commanding glance around the room, Marcus strode to the door. "Later, lovebirds," he called back, his tone switching to jovial as suddenly as flipping a switch. "Thanks for the fuck, Sandy. And thanks for the breakfast and the clean shoes, Chris."

The front door slammed shut moments later, the house suddenly quieter in his absence. Sandy remained sprawled across the bed, her nakedness a stark contrast to Chris's fully clothed state. She reached for the tray Marcus had abandoned, picking through the remaining food with delicate fingers.

"He barely touched the croissants," she observed, tearing off a piece and popping it into her mouth. Her eyes found Chris, still standing awkwardly by the door. "Well? Aren't you going to clean up?"

Chris moved forward cautiously. "Do you want me to... clean you first?" The question was hesitant, hopeful.

Sandy's laugh was musical but cutting. "Not this time, sweetie. I want to keep his cum inside me as long as possible." She shifted, spreading her legs slightly to emphasize her point. "I love feeling him drip out of me throughout the day. Reminds me what a real man feels like."

The flash of hurt in Chris's eyes was quickly replaced by resigned acceptance. "Of course."

Sandy ate another piece of croissant, watching him with feline satisfaction. "You know what, though? You've been good this morning. Very attentive." She licked a crumb from her finger, making the gesture unnecessarily sensual. "I think you deserve a little something."

Hope flickered across Chris's face. "What do you mean?"

"You can jerk off," Sandy announced, as if bestowing a great gift. "Right here." She tapped the silver breakfast tray with her nail. "I want to see you cum on Marcus's leftovers."

Chris's cock immediately stiffened in his pants, a Pavlovian response to being allowed release after hours of servitude and denial. "Thank you," he breathed.

Sandy arranged herself comfortably against the pillows, pulling the sheet over her lower half but leaving her breasts exposed. "Go ahead then. I'm waiting."

With trembling fingers, Chris pushed down his pyjama. His erection sprang free, already fully hard and leaking. He positioned himself beside the bed, angling his cock over the breakfast tray as instructed.

"That's it," Sandy encouraged, her eyes fixed on his desperate movements. "Stroke that pathetic dick for me."

Chris began to masturbate, his hand moving frantically as months of conditioning had taught him to capitalize on these rare opportunities. His eyes darted between the silver tray and Sandy's exposed breasts, torn between the degrading task and the beautiful woman before him.

"Faster," Sandy commanded, her voice taking on the authoritative edge she'd learned from Marcus. "And tell me what you're thinking about."

"I'm thinking about—" Chris gasped, his hand a blur now, "—about watching you with Marcus. How he—how he fills you up in ways I never could."

"That's right," Sandy agreed, her smile cruel and beautiful. "His cock stretches me so good, doesn't it? Makes me scream in ways you never could."

Chris nodded frantically, his breathing shallow as he approached his climax. "Yes, yes."

"And you love it, don't you? Watching your wife get fucked properly? Cleaning up after us like the good little bitch you are?"

"God, yes," Chris moaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "I love it. I love serving you both."

Sandy leaned forward, her breasts swaying hypnotically. "Then cum for me. Cum all over the breakfast you made for my bull."

That was all it took. With a strangled cry, Chris erupted, shooting thick ropes of cum across the silver tray. His release spattered over remnants of eggs, toast, and the fine china plate, mixing with the crumbs Marcus had left behind.

Sandy watched with detached interest as Chris shuddered through his orgasm, his face contorted in a mixture of pleasure and shame. When he finally finished, his cock still twitching in his hand, she nodded appraisingly.

"Not bad," she commented, examining the impressive load he'd produced. "Almost as much as Marcus shoots. Of course, his is much thicker. Stronger. But you did well."

Chris tucked himself back into his pants, his moment of release already giving way to renewed subservience. "Thank you."

Sandy stretched luxuriously before rising from the bed in one fluid motion. Her naked body gleamed in the morning light as she stepped past Chris, deliberately brushing against him. "Make sure you change the sheets completely," she instructed casually. "And clean that tray thoroughly. I don't want to see a trace of anything when I get out."

"Yes, Sandy," Chris replied, already gathering the soiled linens.

The bathroom door remained open as Sandy ran her bath, adding scented oils that filled the room with the aroma of jasmine and vanilla. Steam rose from the water as she tested it with her fingers, adjusting the temperature to her liking. Chris could hear the splash as she lowered herself into the tub, followed by her contented sigh.

He worked methodically, stripping the bed with practiced movements. The sheets were a battlefield of stains—Marcus's cum, Sandy's arousal, sweat from their vigorous coupling. Chris bundled them into the hamper, trying not to inhale too deeply the mingled scents of sex and dominance that permeated the fabric.

From the bathroom came the sound of Netflix starting up. Sandy had propped her tablet on the bath caddy and was settling in for a long, relaxing soak. Her laughter floated through the open door as she began watching some romantic comedy, completely untroubled by the mess she'd left behind.

Chris retrieved fresh sheets from the linen closet, unfolding crisp cotton across the mattress with careful precision. He tucked hospital corners just the way Sandy liked, smoothed out every wrinkle, and fluffed the pillows to perfection. All the while, he could see her through the doorway, surrounded by bubbles, her hair piled atop her head, completely absorbed in her show.

The contrast couldn't have been starker—Sandy luxuriating in warm water, relaxed and pampered, while Chris knelt on the floor scrubbing at a stubborn stain where Marcus had bent her over the night before. Yet oddly, the disparity didn't fill him with resentment. Instead, there was a perverse satisfaction in his service, a contentment in knowing his place.

He moved to the silver breakfast tray, carefully wiping away his own release from its polished surface. The degradation of cleaning his own cum from where it mingled with the remnants of the meal he'd prepared for his wife's lover sent another twitch through his spent cock.

This was his role now. This was what he'd agreed to, what he'd secretly craved. The humiliation burned sweet and sharp, a constant reminder of his inadequacy and his acceptance of it. He glanced again toward the bathroom, where Sandy's bare shoulder peeked above the bubbles, her head thrown back in laughter at something on her screen.

In that moment, seeing her happiness, her freedom to enjoy her pleasure while he tended to the aftermath, Chris felt a complicated surge of emotions—degradation, yes, but also a twisted pride in his service. The shame of his submission had become its own reward, a perverse fulfillment that he embraced more fully with each passing day.