Marriage Plan

Eleanor, with a final, possessive pat on Mark's hooded head, walked to the corner of the room and pulled out her phone. With a few quick taps, she sent Sarah a picture of Mark, kneeling and ready, along with a simple text: "ready."

In the quiet, smoky atmosphere of the jazz club, Sarah’s phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at the screen, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. She showed the phone to Tom, who chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. He smiled and finished his drink, setting the glass down with a decisive click. Sarah finished hers, and they left the club, arm in arm, their movements a picture of easy intimacy, a couple deeply in love.

The front door opened, but Mark made no movement. The white noise in his ears was a wall of sound, cutting him off from the world. Sarah slapped her hands in front of his face. There was no movement from Mark. She turned to Tom and kissed him hard, a passionate, open-mouthed kiss that was a declaration of ownership. Tom picked her off the ground, her legs scissoring his waist, and pushed her against the wall. "Let's take it upstairs," she whispered, her voice a husky promise, the words refering to her husband as well as the sex.

Tom grabbed the leash, and Mark jumped, his body reacting to the sudden, sharp tug. Tom pulled upward on the leash, and Mark stood, stumbling blindly behind them, his world a confusing series of pulls and shoves. They led him up the stairs and then made him kneel in the centre of Sarah's bathroom, the cool tiles a shock against his bare skin.

Sarah pulled her panties off, the scent of her arousal filling the small room. She grabbed the back of Mark's hood and pulled his face close to her pussy. He tried to pull away, a muffled grunt of protest escaping his throat, but she held tight, her fingers digging into the rubber, her grip unyielding. She groaned as she let loose her stream of hot piss, the liquid splashing into his forced-open mouth, over his rubber-covered face, down his chest. He tried to struggle, to turn his head, but her grip was like iron. He choked and spluttered, the acrid taste of her urine filling his senses, a violation so profound it felt like it was burning his soul. When she had finished, she pushed him away, and he collapsed to the floor, coughing and gagging.

The leash was pulled again, and he found himself crawling on his hands and knees, his body moving on pure instinct. He was relieved to feel the thick carpet of the bedroom beneath his knees, a small mercy in the sea of his torment.

Two hands grabbed his head and held it tight. The cold metal of the ring gag was a constant, invasive presence against his teeth, forcing his jaw open in a way that felt unnatural and permanent. Saliva pooled in the bottom of his mouth, unable to be swallowed properly, and he could feel the humiliating trickle of it dribbling down his chin. His world had narrowed to the ache in his jaw and the sound of his own ragged breathing through the open circle.

Tom slowly fed his cock into the ring. It was soft, almost delicate, resting heavily in the palm of the hand that now guided it. It was completely flaccid, and that fact somehow made the moment more intense, more intimate. This wasn't about an immediate, primal act; this was about ownership, about the mere presence of one person's body being allowed to invade another's.

The tip nudged against his lower lip, just outside the ring. The skin was impossibly soft, velvety and warm, and it left a slight, damp trail where it touched him. Mark flinched instinctively, a jolt of pure electric shock running through him, but the hands holding his head tightened, a silent, unyielding command to remain still. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the hood, for a second, forcing himself to accept it, to breathe through the panic and the profound, gut-wrenching humiliation.

Slowly, it was pushed forward. It slid through the metal ring, growing, filling the empty space he had been forced to create. The first sensation was the overwhelming warmth. It was a living heat, a stark contrast to the cold steel of the gag. Then came the texture, the soft, yielding flesh pressing against his tongue, which lay trapped and helpless in the bottom of his mouth. It felt weighty, solid in its softness, and as it was pushed deeper, it completely filled the space, pressing his tongue down and nudging at the back of his throat.

His gag reflex spasmed, a choked, desperate sound catching in his chest. He couldn't pull back, couldn't close his mouth, couldn't do anything but endure the slow, inexorable invasion. The taste was subtle, clean, and intensely personal—salt and skin and something uniquely male. It was the taste of surrender. He could feel every ridge, every vein, every slight movement as the person before him shifted. The softness of it was the most shocking part; it wasn't a weapon, but a presence, one that was now part of him, connected to him in the most intimate and violating way possible. A tear escaped the corner of his eye and pooled inside the hood as he finally understood what it meant to be truly and completely used.

Tom pulled back, and Sarah let go of Mark's head, pushing him to the ground. She had eyes on one thing only: Tom's growing cock. She knelt and took it in her mouth, her enthusiasm a stark contrast to Mark's forced submission. Seeing Mark so useless and pathetic, knowing she was destroying him, knowing that at any time, she could dump him off at the side of the road like an unwanted pet, excited her beyond belief, feeding her hunger for Tom's cock.

Tom's strong hands pulled at her hair, and her hands went to his shaft and balls. Tom could feel himself building, and he pulled Sarah off, practically ripping her dress off and throwing her on the bed. He put his hand on her back to hold her there and rammed his cock into her waiting pussy. She screamed, "Yes, fuck me, fuck me now!" and he did, hard and fast. She orgasmed, her body convulsing, as he spat loads of cum into her.

They lay locked together, Mark lying on the floor, unsure what was happening. Tom pulled out and helped Sarah up, then helped her crouch over Mark. Tom held his hooded head while Sarah let Tom's cum drip into Mark's forced-open mouth. It pooled at the back of his throat, and he was forced to swallow, the taste of their combined pleasure a final, bitter poison. Sarah lowered herself onto Mark's ringed mouth and made him give her another orgasm, his tongue a tool for her pleasure, his face a seat for her satisfaction.

They used Mark most of the night. He was a footstool, a table, a toy. He was forced to lick their feet, to clean them after they had sex. He was made to kneel at the side of the bed, a silent, ghostly witness to their intimacy. The final act was the most brutal. Tom, his cock hard again, took Mark from behind. He held him down, his weight pinning him to the floor, and fucked him, his thrusts hard and punishing. Mark screamed, an agonised sound that was muffled by the hood and the gag. When Tom came, he filled Mark's ass with his spunk, a final, possessive mark. Sarah filmed it all on her phone, her laughter cruel.

Mark woke up with a start. His ankle was attached to a cuff that was chained to something. The hood was still over his head, but the ring gag had been removed. The thick collar was still around his neck. His mouth tasted foul, and his backside was sore. The white noise had stopped in his ears, and he could hear his pulse, a frantic, desperate drumbeat. He felt movement around him. He didn't know where he was, only that his leg was cuffed.

He felt hands on his legs, and the cuff was removed. A pull upward reminded him of the leash. He was pulled upward and forward. He stood and walked whatever way the collar pulled him. His hands went up to it to ease the strain on his neck, but they were slapped away. He was turned, walked a little, then turned again. The collar was pulled down, and he went down on his knees. The leash was pulled forward a little, then attached to something that held him in place on his knees.

Tom looked down at him and rolled his eyes. He couldn't remember why he had ever been friends with this pathetic thing, let alone best friends.

Mark heard a familiar click. He was back in the boxroom. The click was the door locking him in. His hands went to the leash and pulled. It had no give. If he had been able to see, he would have noticed that all he had to do was to lift the loop at the end of the leash over the post at the end of the cot. But he couldn't see. He was blind, trapped, and alone.