The Will Of The Wongs

The week before the wedding was a flurry of activity. Arthur was ordered to Glasgow, where the ladies took great pleasure in schooling him further. His role was defined: to please his wife, to clean her, to help prepare her for her dates, to be invisible unless needed. His cock hadn't been released from its prison in two months, and he held a desperate, flickering hope that on his wedding day, he might finally know completion.

His own office became another place of his submission. Yumi now worked as his personal assistant, her competence undeniable as she quickly learned his business. Behind the closed doors of his office, the dynamic was clear. Arthur was often found hidden under his own desk, Yumi's legs draped over his shoulders, his mouth performing the duties she deigned to teach him.

The day of the wedding arrived. There were two ceremonies. The first, for his family and unsuspecting friends, was a picture of traditional happiness. Arthur played his part, the doting groom. The second ceremony was private, held in the Wong's back room. There, Arthur was naked, a heavy, ornate steel collar around his neck presented instead of a ring. Mrs. Wong clicked it into place herself. His four-and-a-half-inch cock was released, and every lady in the Wong household took turns feeling it, laughing softly as it twitched desperately between their experienced fingers. He was presented not as a husband, but as a prized pet, a new chattel of the family.

His wedding night was a crucible. He was chained by the collar to the foot of the king-sized bed in their suite. From this position, he watched Mei enjoy three separate, virile men. He watched their rutting, their fucking, her cries of pleasure. After they were done, each man was presented to him. "Thank you for pleasuring my wife," he was made to say, his voice steady, taking a strange pride in cleaning her, in erasing all evidence of the men but keeping the memory of her pleasure.

When they were finally gone, she released him from the chain. She took him in her arms, her naked body soft against his tortured skin. She laid him down in their honeymoon bed, a gesture that was tender beyond words. She allowed him to rub his little cock against her smooth thigh until, with a choked sob, he exploded. She smiled at him, a genuine, loving smile, and gently pushed his head down. "Clean your mess," she whispered. This was the last night his cock would ever touch her skin. In the morning, it was locked away again, to be released only for monthly cleanings and supervised masturbations, and only then if he had been exceptionally good. He was never allowed to see her naked again. A hood or blindfold was always in place when he had to attend to her needs. In time, he learned to ready her lovers and clean them, too. He had become exactly what they needed him to be: hers, and theirs, completely.