"Blackfriars' Web"

Stewart was distraught. It had only been two days, but his mind was already playing tricks on him. The silence of the cell was a physical presence, a weight that pressed in on him, broken only by the rhythmic drip... drip... of a leak he couldn't see. He had had three visits from his wife, each one colder and more brutal than the last. She would feed him, her movements clinical, her eyes devoid of any warmth.

She would shower him with cold water, her touch rough and impersonal. And then she would tease his cock, her fingers ghosting over his flesh until he was hard, until the spikes of the monk's ring bit viciously into the base of his cock. She would watch him writhe, a sneer of contempt on her face, enjoying his pain. He was constantly hyped up on Viagra, and now, the slightest thought—a memory of a sunny afternoon, the face of a girl he knew in college —was enough to make his cock grow, and the ring would punish him for his weakness.

He was falling into a bored, miserable doze when the screen above the door, which had been dark and dead since his arrival, suddenly came alive. Bright, clear light filled the cell, and a live feed from one of the opulent bedrooms flickered to life. He stared, his heart seizing in his chest.

It was Isabella. His wife.

She was on her knees on a plush fur rug, her body naked, her skin gleaming in the soft lamplight. And she had Roger's cock in her mouth, her head bobbing in a slow, sensual rhythm. Behind her, Lady Beatrice, wearing a massive black strap-on, was fucking her from behind, her hands gripping Isabella's hips, her movements deep and powerful. The pleasure on Isabella's face was unmistakable, a look of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. Her eyes were closed, her mouth full, but her expression was one of bliss. She was free. No collar adorned her neck, no cruel device encased her flesh. She was free, and she was reveling in it.

Stewart felt a surge of something hot and violent—betrayal, jealousy, and a horrifying, undeniable arousal. The monk's ring tightened its grip, and he whimpered around his gag.

On the screen, Beatrice pulled out of Isabella with a wet, sucking sound. She flicked a switch on the strap-on, and a long, thick rubber cock, the one she had been using, detached and dropped to the floor. "Clean it," Beatrice commanded, her voice husky with pleasure.

Isabella turned, her face flushed, her lips swollen. She crawled to the discarded cock and, without hesitation, took it into her mouth, licking and sucking her own juices from the rubber with an avid hunger that made Stewart's stomach churn. She was not just performing; she was enjoying it.

When she was done, Beatrice pointed to Roger, who was now lying back on the bed, his own cock hard and jutting. "Lick his balls," she ordered.

Isabella complied, her tongue tracing a path over Roger's sac as Beatrice positioned herself over him, her back to Isabella. She sank down onto his cock, taking him deep inside her with a satisfied moan. As she began to ride him, she looked directly at the camera, at Stewart. Her eyes were dark, triumphant, and full of a cold, clear message. This was what freedom tasted like. This was the price of his failure.

Stewart squeezed his eyes shut, but the image was burned into the back of his eyelids. His cock was a throbbing, screaming agony, the spikes digging deeper with every beat of his traitorous heart. He was trapped in a prison of pain, while his wife was free, her body and her pleasure given to another man. The drip in the corner continued its relentless rhythm, counting out the seconds of his torment.

***

David was released from the wall and taken to the Matron's quarters. The journey was a blur of stone corridors and hushed silence, his body still aching from the housekeeper's attentions. As Thomas led him into the stark, imposing room, the first thing David saw was a young man, no older than twenty-five, standing behind the Matron. He was handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features and an easy confidence. He was kissing her neck, nibbling at her earlobe, his hands freely massaging her nipples through the tight, gleaming black rubber of her catsuit.

"Ahh, here he is," the Matron said, her voice a low purr of pleasure.

The young man stopped his ministrations and stepped out from behind her. He placed his hands possessively on her shoulders and looked David up and down, his gaze clinical, appraising. "Can I see what I'm working with?"

The Matron picked up her phone from a nearby table, her thumb finding the icon with practiced ease. David felt a wave of relief as the cage around his cock loosened its grip with a soft hiss.

"Take it off," the man, Karl, said to David.

David hesitated, his eyes flicking to the Matron for permission. She gave a curt, impatient nod. David did as he was told, his fingers fumbling slightly as he removed the metal device and set it on the floor.

"Get it hard for me, sweetie," Karl said, his tone light, almost mocking.

Again, David looked at the Matron, a silent plea in his eyes. She sighed, a sound thick with impatience. "This is Karl. You will do everything he tells you. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Matron," David replied, his voice barely a whisper.

He closed his eyes, trying to conjure an image, anything to spark the response this man demanded. He thought of his wife, of a time before the ruin, and slowly, reluctantly, his flesh began to swell and rise until he stood before them, fully erect.

Karl went over to him, his movements fluid and graceful. He stroked David's face, his touch surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the brutal handling he was used to. He leaned in, his lips parting for a kiss. David flinched and pulled away, a reflex born of revulsion and fear.

The Matron made a noise deep in her throat, a low, growling warning that promised pain.

David froze. He stood rigid and forced himself to accept the kiss. It was closed-lipped at first, his jaw clenched tight. But Karl held the back of David's head, his fingers digging into his shaved skin, and forced his tongue past David's lips. He began to mash his lips against David's, a deep, invasive kiss that stole his breath. Karl's other hand went to David's newly erect cock and began to gently tug on it, his touch expert, teasing, a horrifying blend of pleasure and violation that sent a wave of nausea through David's core.

What followed was a lesson in absolute submission. Karl, with the Matron watching from a chair, taught David how to make love to a man. He guided David to his knees, instructing him on how to use his mouth, his tongue, his throat. He taught him how to suppress his gag reflex, how to breathe, how to pleasure another man with a skill that David never imagined he would possess. 

Then, Karl had David lie on a plush chaise lounge, his body trembling, and taught him how to be taken. He used lube and his fingers, stretching David slowly, patiently, his voice a constant, low murmur of instruction and praise. Karl entered him, his movements slow and deliberate at first, then faster, more demanding. The pain gradually gave way to a confusing, unwelcome pleasure that made David’s own cock ache.

 Finally, in the ultimate act of violation and control, Karl gave his own body to David, lying on his back, pulling David on top of him, and guiding David's cock into his own ass. "Fuck me," Karl had whispered, his eyes locked on David's. "Show me you've learned." And David, broken and pliable, had done as he was told, his body moving mechanically until he spilled himself inside the young man, his soul feeling like it had been scooped out and hollowed.

A confused and shattered David was taken back to the housekeeper's room and replaced in the cage. Thomas threw the blanket over him and locked the door, leaving him to the darkness and the echoes of his own degradation.

Later that night, the door to the bedroom opened. David watched through the bars of his cage as the Matron and the housekeeper entered. They didn't look at him; he was just part of the furniture. The Matron began to undress the housekeeper, her movements familiar and intimate. They kissed, a deep, passionate kiss that spoke of a long-shared history. They fell onto the bed, their bodies entwined in a dance of lust and power that was both beautiful and terrifying. David watched as they had sex above him, their moans and sighs filling the room, a symphony of pleasure that underscored his own utter worthlessness. He was a spectator to their intimacy, a prisoner in their private world, his existence reduced to watching the two women who owned him take pleasure in each other.