Marriage Plan

Sarah stood at his door, a silhouette against the dim hallway light. She looked down at him, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes as they took in the dried tear tracks and the lingering sheen of her own juices on his face. "Follow me," she commanded, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "And stay on your knees where you belong."

He started to shuffle after her, the chain on his ankles scraping against the floor, but a wave of desperation washed over him. "Please, Sarah," he called after her, his voice a hoarse, pathetic whimper.

She stopped and turned, looking down at him with an air of detached curiosity. “Please, what?"

"Whatever you are going to do to me," he begged, his voice cracking. "Please, don't."

Her laugh was something he hadn't heard before; it was a cold, sharp, utterly devoid of humour, as close to pure evil as he could imagine. She stepped back toward him, grabbed a handful of his hair, and yanked his head back, pulling his face up toward hers. She spat, a thick wad of phlegm landing directly on his cheek, right next to his eye. "That is what you are to me," she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. “Nothing.”

She took her phone out of her pocket and, with a deliberate, dramatic motion, pressed an icon on the screen. He felt a sharp sting at his neck, followed by a violent, searing shock that convulsed his body, stealing his breath and silencing the plea he was about to make. With a smugness in her voice that made his blood run cold, she said, "Heel, boy."

He followed her into her bedroom, his movements a clumsy, painful crawl. She decided to turn the knife a little, to twist it in the wound she had already made. "I imagine you pictured us lying on this bed, didn't you?" she mused, her voice conversational, as if they were discussing a holiday. "A happy married couple, you putting your little dickie inside of me." She laughed out loud, a genuine, amused sound that was more painful than any slap. "That was never going to happen. The moment you let me lock it up was the moment you shut those doors forever."

She pulled a high-backed wooden chair from the corner of the room, its dark, ornate design looking like a throne. "Sit," she commanded.

He did, his body stiff and aching. Then she began her work. She tied his wrists to the arms, then pulled a series of thick, leather straps from a drawer. The first went around his chest, just under his armpits, pulling him tight against the hard back of the chair. The second went over his lap, securing his waist. Another went over each thigh, pinning his legs to the seat. She strapped his ankles to the chair legs, then his knees. He was completely immobilised, a fly caught in a sadistic web.

While she worked, she talked, her voice a low, constant murmur of poison. "You know," she said, pulling a strap tight, making him grunt with pain. "All that time we were dating, all those months when you were being such a perfect gentleman, respecting my wishes and not having sex before we were married... I was having regular sex with a real man." She laughed, a soft, cruel sound, as she saw the tears forming in his eyes. "Every time you went home with blue balls, I was being thoroughly satisfied."

She saw the tear escape and trace a path through the grime on his cheek. "Oh, don't cry," she mocked, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "It gets so much better." She pulled a ball gag from the same drawer and shoved it into his mouth, buckling it tightly behind his head, silencing his sobs.

"Even on our honeymoon," she continued, her voice rising with excitement as she revelled in his torment. "After I drugged you to make you sleep, I was fucking my lover. He was in our marriage bed while you were passed out cold. And even before that, at our wedding reception, I slipped away. I fucked someone else in the cloakroom while you were chatting with mummy, you were so clueless. My lover and I were laughing about you, about the pathetic little groom."

She leaned in close, her face inches from his. "But you're in luck tonight," she whispered, her voice a venomous promise. "My lover is going to fuck me, and you are going to be able to witness it. Well, listen to it anyway."

With that, she pulled a thick, black silk blindfold from her pocket and tied it securely around his head, plunging him into a world of absolute darkness and muffled sound. She left him then, the sound of her footsteps receding, leaving him alone with the suffocating reality of his own worthlessness.

He didn't know how long he sat there, a prisoner of darkness and his own racing thoughts. Every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the wind, sent a fresh jolt of fear through him. Then he heard it. The sound of the front door opening, the low murmur of voices. Sarah's, and another. A man’s whisper.

They came into the room, their footsteps soft on the carpet. He could hear them kissing, a soft, wet, intimate sound that made him feel sick. He could hear the rustle of clothes being removed, the soft thud of shoes hitting the floor.

Then he felt a presence behind him. A hand rested on his shoulder, and Eleanor's voice, a low, hypnotic whisper, was right next to his ear. "Listen carefully, boy," she murmured. "Listen to what a real man sounds like. Listen to how much she loves that cock. You could never live up to it, not in a million years. All you can ever hope to do is worship them. Thank him for giving her something you could never do."

He heard Sarah moan, a low, guttural sound of pleasure. He heard the soft slap of skin on skin, the rhythmic creak of the bed. "Oh, yes," Sarah cried out, her voice thick with lust. "Just like that. Fuck me."

Eleanor's voice was a constant, poisonous counterpoint in his ear. "Hear that? That's the sound of a woman being satisfied. That's a sound you've never made. He's so big, so thick. He's stretching her, filling her completely. She's taking all of him, because she's a real woman, and he's a real man."

He could hear everything. The slap of flesh, the wet, sucking sounds, their gasps and moans, their whispered words of encouragement and desire. It was a symphony of his own humiliation, a soundtrack to his destruction. He could hear the man’s deep, grunting thrusts, hear Sarah's cries of ecstasy building to a crescendo.

"He's fucking her ass now," Eleanor whispered, her voice filled with a sadistic glee. "Something you'll never do. Something you'll never have. She loves it. She loves being taken like that. She loves his cock."

Sarah screamed, a long, shuddering cry of pure, unadulterated orgasm, and it was the most painful sound Mark had ever heard. He could hear the man’s deep, guttural groan as he came, and he knew, with a certainty that shattered his soul, that he had filled his wife with his seed.

They lay there for a while, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Then he heard them get up, the sound of them kissing one last time.

Before Tom left, he walked behind Mark, his movements deliberate and heavy. He gripped the high back of the wooden chair, his knuckles white, and with a powerful heave, he pulled it backwards. The chair, with Mark strapped securely in, tilted precariously, then crashed to the floor with a sickening, final thud. Mark was lying on his back, still trapped, the world turned sideways, a helpless beetle pinned to a card.

Sarah walked over to him, her hips swaying with a languid, feline grace. She looked down at him, her expression one of cool, detached ownership. She reached down and pulled the blindfold from his eyes, forcing him to look up at her, at the woman he had loved, the woman who was now his tormentor. She squatted over his face, her knees on either side of his head, her body a looming, intimate threat.

"Did you enjoy the show?" she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. He just stared, his eyes wide, his soul broken. He was nothing. He was less than nothing.

He could see everything in horrifying detail. He could see the flushed, swollen lips of her pussy, still glistening from her exertions, the evidence of her pleasure plain for him to see. He could see the thick, pearly-white fluid of her lover's cum, pooled at her entrance. She held herself there for a moment, letting him look, letting the anticipation build, a silent, psychological torture.

Then, with a soft, deliberate sigh, she bore down just enough. A single, thick glob of his best freinds cum escaped and dripped down. It landed on his cheek, a warm, sticky, humiliating tear. Then another, landing on his chin. Then a slow, steady trickle, a viscous river of his wife's infidelity and his own inadequacy, dripping onto his face, into his hair, some of it managing to find its way into the corner of his mouth, the salty, alien taste a final, ultimate violation.

She stood up, looked down at her handiwork, and smiled. "Goodnight, Mark," she said, her voice sweet, casual, as if she were wishing a pleasant dream to a loved one. "Don't go anywhere."

They left him like that all night. The door clicked shut, plunging the room into near darkness, the only light a sliver of moonlight from outside. He was immobilised, on his back, staring at the ceiling. The cum on his face began to dry, tightening his skin. He couldn't wipe it away. He couldn't even turn his head. He was forced to lie there, in the sticky mess of his own cuckolding, a monument to his own failure. The house was silent, but the noise in his head was deafening, a cacophony of their laughter, their moans, their whispered words of love and desire, all playing on a loop in the darkness of his mind. He was no longer a man, no longer a husband. He was a thing, an object