Marriage Plan

The hours in the cellar bled into a single, suffocating moment of darkness, dust, and despair. Mark's jaw was a throbbing, agonising cavern of pain, the hard rubber of the gag an unrelenting tormentor that seemed to fuse with his teeth. The drool that had once trickled now ran in a constant, humiliating stream down his chin and onto the front of his filthy pink gym kit, a cold, slimy trail of his own submission. 

He was exhausted, his muscles screaming from the heavy boxes he had moved around on the hard floor, his body a map of aches and cramps. He sat on the dirty steps, and just as he was drifting into a state of delirious semi-sleep. The lock on the door clicked, and the wooden door creaked open.

He squinted as the light from the hallway flooded the cellar, a painful assault on his eyes after squinting with the low-watt single bulb. Sarah stood there, her silhouette imposing, a goddess of his personal hell. "Get up, you filthy creature," she commanded, her voice echoing in the small space, devoid of any human warmth.

He struggled to his feet, his limbs stiff and uncooperative, his body protesting every movement. She walked down the steps, a small key in her hand. She grabbed his chin, her grip like iron, and turned his head to the side. He heard another click, and the pressure on the back of his head vanished as the padlock on the gag was undone. She unbuckled the strap and pulled the ball from his mouth.

He worked his jaw, stretching it, trying to get life back into the protesting muscles. The relief was immense, but it was immediately replaced by a new kind of shame as he felt the wetness on his chin. His face felt stiff and grimy. He looked at his reflection in a small, dusty mirror hanging on the wall and saw a stranger. His face was black with cellar grime except for a stark band of white and red running across his cheek where the leather strap had cut into his flesh.

Sarah handed him a bottle of water. He took it with a trembling hand, his gratitude overwhelming his humiliation. "Thank you," he rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"Go clean yourself up," she said, her tone all business. "And bring down your dirty clothes, including that girly nightie. There are other bedtime clothes for you. Put them on."

He turned to leave the kitchen, his movements slow and stiff, but was stopped by Eleanor, who was standing by the door. She reached out and did something to the pink leather choker around his neck. It was now almost black with sweat and grime. With a sharp tug, it came off, leaving a white, raw-looking line around his neck amongst the filth.

As he slowly walked up the stairs, a small, foolish flicker of hope ignited in his chest. They had told him to bring the girlie nightie down; maybe he had been good enough to earn men's pyjamas. At last, he thought, a wave of relief washed over him. I'm winning them over.

He stripped in the small guest bathroom and stepped into the shower, watching the grey, filthy water swirl down the drain, taking with it the grime of the cellar and the shame of the day. After drying himself, he wrapped the dirty clothes in a towel, ready to take them downstairs. He glanced at the collection of his aftershaves in the corner, but he thought better of it. The memory of Eleanor's slap was still fresh.

Happy that the small bathroom was clean, he looked into the hallway to check it was clear and walked the few short steps to his box room. He pushed the door to, remembering not to click it closed, or he would be locked in.

Mark's hand trembled slightly as he approached his bed, where a small, deliberate collection of items awaited him. The two-piece lingerie set of turquoise and hot pink was laid out, but it was not alone. Beside it sat a pair of kitten-heeled house slippers, the low, squat heels covered in the same hot pink as the lace on the lingerie. Across the front of each slipper was a fluffy, white furry band, looking soft and almost playful against the delicate fabric of the lingerie. On top of the babydoll top rested a small bottle: Avon Soft Musk.

The silk of the babydoll felt impossibly smooth and cool against his fingertips, a stark contrast to the rough cotton of the nightie. He held it up, the intricate hot pink lace at the neckline and hem looking both delicate and intimidating. It was so feminine, so completely alien to his own identity. A wave of heat washed over his face, a blush of profound shame. He hesitated for a long moment before pulling the babydoll over his head. The fabric whispered against his skin, settling on his frame in a way that was both unsettling and strangely electrifying. The spaghetti straps felt delicate on his shoulders, and the lace hem brushed against his mid-thigh.

Next was the thong. It was a scrap of turquoise fabric and hot pink strings, impossibly small. He stepped into it, pulling it up. The thin string at the back settled between his buttocks, a constant, intrusive reminder of his new state of dress. The front pouch did little to conceal the cage on his cock, instead highlighting it in a way that felt more humiliating than being completely naked.

Then came the slippers. He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped his feet into them. The kitten heels were low, but they still forced his weight forward, altering his posture in a way that felt unnatural and submissive. The furry band across the top of his foot was soft, tickling his skin, a bizarrely comforting sensation amidst the overwhelming humiliation. They were domestic, feminine, and utterly ridiculous on his male frame.

Finally, he picked up the bottle of Avon Soft Musk. He uncapped it, and the scent, a powdery, synthetic musk, filled the air. It was cheap, cloying, and smelled of something he associated with his grandmother's dresser. He sprayed it on his neck and wrists, the scent clinging to him like a second skin, another layer of humiliation imposed upon him. The fragrance was a powdery and musky scent that leaned synthetic, vaguely reminiscent of something furry but more like a rug than a kitten.

He knew he looked ridiculous, pathetic. He adjusted the drawstring at the bust, his fingers fumbling with the delicate ribbon. He smoothed down the lace at the hem, trying to make it sit perfectly. He wanted to be good for them. He wanted to please them.

After dropping his dirty clothes and towel off at the laundry, Sarah shouted to him from the lounge. "There's some supper in the kitchen, eat it, clean your mess and come meet us in the lounge."

He walked into the kitchen. There was a bowl on the counter with a spoon and a bottle of water. He was famished; he hadn't eaten since his one slice of toast at breakfast. He sighed when he saw what was in the bowl. It was a mixture of whatever was left over from their dinner and brought home in a doggie bag, all mixed up and mushy. There was meat, potatoes, greens, salad, and maybe some kind of soup. Salad. His hunger got the best of him. He closed his eyes and dug in, using the water to wash the mess down.

He cleaned the kitchen and walked to the lounge. The door was closed. He opened the door and walked in.

Eleanor looked up from her conversation with Sarah. "What do you think you're doing?"

Mark hesitated. "Err, you asked me to come and see you in the lounge."

"Didn't you see the door was closed?" asked his wife, her voice dangerously quiet.

"Yes, Sarah, but..."

"I'll stop you right there, boy," interrupted Eleanor, her voice sharp as a whip. "You will address my daughter as Miss Sarah until you can act like a husband. And in future, if a door is closed, you will knock and wait to be called in. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good. Let's try that again."

He turned, thinking that instead of taking a step to get back in their good books, everything he did just made it worse. He closed the door and then tapped on it. They left him there for a full, agonising minute until he heard Sarah say, "Enter."

"Much better," she told him, a smug smile on her face. "Now, let's have a good look at you."

He stood in the middle of the room.

"Turn for us, boy," Eleanor told him.

He did, slowly, his face burning.

"Mmm, he does look pretty," Sarah said, scratching her chin thoughtfully. "But there's something missing." She told him to kneel down. He did. She stepped behind him, and he felt something cold being fastened around his neck. He heard a click as she padlocked a thick, pink leather collar around his neck. It had a little silver ring on the front, just like the choker.

"Perfect," said Eleanor. "Just perfect. Clever girl." She looked at Mark. "Put your hands behind your back, boy."

He did as he was told, and for the second time that day, his hands were cuffed together.

"Now stand. Let's take another look."

He struggled to his feet, his balance precarious in the kitten heels. To his horror, Sarah had her phone in her hand.

"You know, Mummy," she said, referring to Mark, "looking at this makes me realise how much I need a good, hard fucking."

"Yes, my love, I understand. Maybe we should give Tom a call,” Eleanor said, her voice a dramatic, teasing purr. "I hear he's built like a horse."

"Mother, stop it," Sarah said, her voice a perfect parody of maidenly shock. "I'm a married woman. That wouldn't be right. How would Mark feel if he knew Tom was sticking his big, strong cock in me and bringing me to an orgasm in a way Mark never has? No, no, that just wouldn't be fair."

Mark started to say something, a strangled protest, but Sarah put her hand up to stop him. "Unless you want to be gagged again, I suggest you shut the fuck up."

His mouth shut, and his head sagged. The performance was for him, and it was working.

"No, Mummy, I couldn't," Sarah continued, her lies so convincing that her mother was clearly impressed. "I'm not that kind of girl."

“No, I guess not “, Eleanor said, a slow, cruel smile spreading across her face. "I have a better idea." She lifted the cushion on the seat beside her and brought out a strap-on cock. It was a thick, imposing thing of black rubber, with a leather harness.

Sarah took it from her, her eyes gleaming. She walked over to Mark, who was trembling violently. "Open your mouth," she commanded.

He did, and she shoved the rubber cock into his mouth. "Lick it," she ordered. "Get it nice and wet for me. Show me how you'd suck off a real man if you ever had the chance."

He did, his tongue sliding over the rubber, the taste of it sterile and humiliating. He tried to make it wet, his saliva coating the thick shaft, knowing what was coming.

When she was satisfied, she pulled it from his mouth. She stepped behind him and efficiently strapped the harness around his waist. The base of the dildo was pressed hard against his own caged cock, the pressure a constant, painful reminder of his inadequacy. Every movement would crush it against him.

"Good," Eleanor said, sitting back on the sofa and spreading her legs. "Let's put it to use. But first, I want him to see what he's missing."

Sarah grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him forward. "On your knees," she commanded. She forced his head down until his cheek was pressed against the carpet. "Stay," she ordered.

She then knelt beside her mother, and Mark, from his humiliating position on the floor, was forced to watch as Sarah leaned over and began to kiss Eleanor. It wasn't a chaste peck; it was a deep, lingering, passionate kiss. He watched as his wife's tongue explored his mother-in-law's mouth, as their hands roamed over each other's bodies. He watched as Sarah's fingers found Eleanor's nipples, pinching and twisting them until Eleanor moaned. He watched as Sarah's hand slid down between Eleanor's thighs, her fingers disappearing into her wetness.

"See, Mark?" Sarah said, turning to look at him, her face flushed with arousal. "This is what real passion looks like. This is what you can't give me."

She pulled away from her mother and grabbed Mark by the hair, yanking his head up. "Now," she commanded. "You're going to fuck my mother."

She positioned him between Eleanor's thighs. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he had no balance, no control. Sarah had to guide him, her hand on his hip, pushing him forward. He felt the tip of the dildo press against Eleanor's wet, open pussy. He pushed his hips forward, and the dildo slid inside her.

He was just a machine, a human-powered sex toy. Sarah stood behind him, directing his movements, pushing him forward, pulling him back, setting the rhythm. "Faster," she'd command, slapping his ass. "Harder. Don't you dare stop until she tells you to."

He was sweating now, the exertion and the humiliation combining to break him down completely. He could feel the base of the dildo grinding against his own trapped cock, a dull, agonising ache that mirrored the ache in his soul. He was a beast of burden, a mindless drone, his only purpose to pleasure the woman who had taken everything from him.

After Eleanor came with a loud, shuddering cry, Sarah pulled him away. "My turn," she said, her voice thick with lust.

She pushed him down onto the floor onto his back. The dildo, still wet with Eleanor's juices, stuck straight up in the air like an obscene monument. Sarah straddled him, her knees on either side of his chest. She looked down at him, her eyes dark with desire. She grabbed the dildo and positioned it at her own entrance, then sank down onto it, impaling herself.

She rode him hard, her body moving in a wild, primal rhythm. Her hands were on his chest, her nails digging into his flesh. He was nothing but a base for her pleasure, a living, breathing dildo stand. He looked up at her, at the woman he loved, the woman he had married, as she used him to bring herself to orgasm.

When she was finished, she collapsed on top of him, her body heaving. She rolled off and lay beside him on the floor. Then she looked over at her mother. "Come here, Mummy," she said, her voice a husky whisper.

Eleanor got up from the sofa and knelt beside them. Sarah leaned over and kissed her, a long, deep, passionate kiss. Mother and daughter, their tongues exploring, their hands roaming over each other's bodies. It was a scene of such raw, incestuous depravity that Mark's mind refused to process it. He just lay there, his hands cuffed, the dildo still protruding from his harness, a silent, broken witness to their passion.

When they broke their kiss, Eleanor looked down at him. "He hasn't finished his chores," she said, a cruel smile on her face.

"You're right," Sarah said. She grabbed his hair and pulled his face towards her own, still-glistening pussy. "You know what to do. But this time, you're going to beg for it."

He looked up at her, his eyes pleading.

"Beg," she commanded, her voice hard. "Beg me to let you clean my pussy. Beg me to let me taste my mother's cunt on your face."

Tears streamed down his face. "Please, Miss Sarah," he sobbed, his voice a broken, pathetic whisper. "Please let me clean your pussy. Please let me taste your mother's... your mother's cunt on my face."

She smiled, a triumphant, cruel smile. "Good boy."

He did. For the second time that day, he brought his wife to orgasm with his mouth. This time, he could taste the rubber of the dildo mixed with her own unique flavour. When she was satisfied, Eleanor did the same, pulling his face into her, grinding herself against his mouth until she came again.

As he knelt there, his face wet with their combined juices, Sarah's phone, which was on the floor beside her, lit up with a message. She glanced at it, then looked at Mark, a wicked, triumphant glint in her eye.

"Oh, Tom," she moaned, as if in the throes of passion, her voice loud enough for him to hear clearly. "Oh, Tom, yes! Your cock feels so good!" She was putting on a show, twisting the knife one last time, calling out his best friend's name as she basked in the afterglow of her orgasm.