Marriage Plan

A week later, she called with the news that finally broke him. "We need to push the wedding back," she said, her voice cheerful.

"What? Why?" Mark asked, his stomach plummeting.

"Six months," she continued, ignoring his question. "I'm just not ready. There's still so much to plan, and I want everything to be perfect. You understand, don't you?"

He didn't understand. He was devastated. Six more months. Six more months of the cage, of the aching frustration, of kneeling before her. But what could he say? To argue was to be selfish, to not support her dreams. "Okay," he said, his voice hollow. "If that's what you want."

"Oh, it is," she said brightly. "It's for the best, really. You'll see."

The six months stretched into an eternity of controlled denial. She held the only key and wielded it like a sceptre. She relished the power it gave her, the way he looked at her with a mixture of longing and desperation. She would tease him, running her fingers over the locked metal and whispering about what awaited him on their wedding night, a night that kept receding further into the distance.

She only released him once during those six months. It was his birthday. She came to his apartment with a small black bag. Inside were sterile latex gloves and a bottle of lubricant. She made him lie on his bed, his hands at his sides. She donned the gloves with a snap, her movements efficient and impersonal, like a nurse preparing for a procedure. She applied the cool gel and began to stroke him.

It was the most clinical, detached sexual experience of his life. There was no passion, no intimacy, only a mechanical manipulation of his flesh. He was so starved for sensation that it didn't take long. His orgasm was a violent, shuddering thing, a release that was almost painful in its intensity.

Before he had even recovered his breath, she held the soiled glove up to his face. "Lick it clean," she commanded.

He recoiled, his face twisting in disgust. "What? No, Sarah, that's gross."

A flicker of impatience crossed her features. "If you're expecting me to go down on you once we're married," she said, her voice dangerously low, "then you should at least know what it tastes like. It's only fair, don't you think?"

Her logic was twisted yet undeniable; it also held the promise of something wonderful in the near future. Humiliation burned through him. He closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, the bitter, salty taste coating his mouth. She watched him, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. When he was done, she peeled off the gloves, dropped them in his trash can, and locked the cage back in place without another word.

The final straw came two months before the new wedding date. They were arguing over the font for the invitations. It was a ridiculous thing to fight over, but Mark had reached his limit. He wanted a say, any say, in his own wedding.

"I just think we should look at other options," he'd said, trying to keep his voice even.

Sarah's face had hardened. "There are no other options. This is the one I've chosen. Why do you have to be so difficult about everything?"

"Difficult? I'm not being difficult! I just want to feel like this is my wedding too, not just yours!"

"Well, maybe it's not!" she shouted, her composure finally cracking. "Maybe I’ve felt it’s all just been about me! Because you just left it to me to deal with, and now you come with high and mighty plans when I almost got everything ready?”

The argument escalated, words thrown like weapons, until Sarah burst into tears, the same tears she always used when she was losing control of the narrative. "I can't do this anymore," she sobbed. "I can't. I'm going home to my mother."

She left, and Mark was left alone in his flat, surrounded by wedding samples and a profound sense of failure. The next day, armed with flowers and a grovelling apology, he went to her house. He had to fix this.

Her mother, Eleanor, answered the door. She was a formidable woman, tall and severe, with the same penetrating eyes as her daughter, but colder, harder. She looked Mark up and down, her expression one of profound disappointment.

"Sarah's upstairs," she said, not inviting him in. "But I need to have a word with you first, young man."

Mark's stomach churned. He already feared this woman more than anyone he had ever met. "Yes, Mrs Tailor," he said meekly.

She led him into the kitchen, a pristine, sterile room that smelled of lemon cleaner. She gestured to a hard-backed chair. "Sit."

He sat.

"I am very disappointed with your behaviour," she began, her voice low and even. "Sarah has been in tears all night. You upset her deeply."

"I know, and I'm so sorry. I..."

"Sorry isn't enough," she cut him off. "You need to understand the gravity of what you've done. A man who is about to marry my daughter must learn to be deferential. He must learn that her happiness is his primary responsibility. Your selfishness yesterday was a failure of that responsibility. A serious failure."

"It is only right," she said, her eyes glinting, "that you should be punished to show Sarah how sorry you are. To show me you understand how precious she is to me"

Mark couldn't speak, his mind refusing to process what was happening.

"Stand up," she commanded. "Pull your trousers and underpants down and bend over the kitchen table."

His body moved on autopilot, fueled by a terror so profound it was almost paralysing. He fumbled with his belt, his fingers clumsy. He exposed himself and bent over the cold, hard surface of the table, his face pressed against the wood, his heart pounding in his ears.

"Sarah!" Eleanor called out. "Come in here, dear."

Sarah entered the kitchen. Her eyes were still red, but they were dry now, and they held a bright, eager light. She took in the scene—her fiancée bent over the table, exposed and vulnerable, her mother standing over him with the cane—and a small smile touched her lips.

"Tie his legs to the table legs," Eleanor instructed. "And his arms to the other end."

Sarah moved quickly, her hands sure as she wrapped the soft ropes around his ankles and wrists, pulling them taut.

"It's so he doesn't move and get hurt anywhere else," she explained to Sarah, her voice sharp and to the point.

He was completely immobilised, a sacrifice on the altar of their wedding plans. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself.

Eleanor stood up, her movements sharp and deliberate. She walked to a cupboard and pulled out a long, thin, rattan cane, swishing it through the air with a soft whistle. Mark's blood ran cold.

WHACK!

The first stroke landed across his buttocks with a sharp, searing pain that stole his breath. He cried out, a raw, shocked sound.

WHACK! WHACK!

The strokes came in a steady, merciless rhythm. Eleanor was an expert. Each line of fire landed just below the last, methodically painting his flesh with agony. The pain was overwhelming, a white-hot brand that obliterated all thought. By the tenth stroke, he was sobbing openly, his tears wetting the polished wood of the table. By the fifteenth, he was a broken, blubbering mess, begging for it to stop.

When it was finally over, a profound silence descended, broken only by his ragged gasps. He felt a cool, soothing cream being applied to his burning flesh. Eleanor's fingers were gentle, massaging the lotion into his wounded skin. The touch was strangely intimate, a bizarre contrast to the violence that had just occurred.

Sarah sat at the end of the table by his head, stroking his hair, wiping his tears away with her thumbs. "Thank you for understanding," she whispered, kissing his damp cheek. "Thank you for taking your punishment like a good boy."

As her mother worked the cream deeper into his welts, her touch became more invasive. Her fingers drifted lower, caressing his full, tight balls, tugging gently on the cage. Mark groaned, a sound of pure, frustrated anguish.

Then, her fingers moved between his buttocks, probing, testing his resistance. He tensed, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over him. She clucked her tongue. "Honestly," she said, her fingers pushing deeper, breaching him. "Young boys never clean themselves properly. It's disgusting."

She withdrew her fingers with a tut of disapproval. "You're lucky," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "We can help with that."

They untied him from the table, his limbs stiff and trembling. They marched him upstairs to the main bathroom. "Take all your clothes off," Eleanor commanded.

He stripped, his face burning with shame. They made him kneel in the tub, his back to them. He heard the sound of water running, the snap of a rubber glove. Sarah held his shoulders, a firm, unyielding grip.

"This will make you properly clean," Eleanor said from behind him. "Inside and out."

He felt the cold, slick nozzle being pressed against his anus. Before he could protest, warm water began to flow into him, filling his bowels. The pressure was immense, a deep, cramping agony that stole his breath. He squirmed, but Sarah's grip held him fast.

"Hold it," Eleanor commanded.

He did, for as long as he could, until his body rebelled. They let him expel the water into the toilet; the experience was utterly mortifying. They repeated the process three times until the water ran clear. Only then did they stop.

Afterwards, as he knelt shivering on the bathmat, Eleanor produced more rope. "Stand up," she ordered. She tied his wrists together and looped the rope over a towel rack above his head, leaving him standing, stretched and exposed. “Just to make sure he was empty”, she explained.  

"Don't move until we come back," Sarah said, her voice sweet as she and her mother left him there, alone with his shame and the echoes of his violation.

From that day on, the enemas became a weekly ritual. Eleanor insisted it was for his own health, a necessary preparation for marrying her daughter. "I want a healthy boy marrying my Sarah," she'd say as she prepared the bag. "A clean boy, inside and out."

Punishments became more and more regular. Sarah would pick arguments over the most trivial things—the colour of the napkins, the timing of the toast, the brand of champagne—and then run crying to her mother, reporting Mark's "disrespectful" behaviour. The canings, the intimate cream applications, the enemas—it all became a grim, recurring pattern. Mark felt himself shrinking, his will to resist eroded by the constant cycle of transgression and punishment. He was a child again, subject to the whims of cruel, omnipotent parents.

A week before the finally rescheduled wedding, Mark was summoned to Eleanor's bedroom. He knocked timidly on the door.

"Come in," she called.

He entered to find her lying on her bed, propped up against a mountain of silk pillows. She was wearing a sheer, black negligee that did little to conceal her ample, still-firm body. Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders. She looked less like a future mother-in-law and more like a predator waiting for its prey.

"Close the door," she said, patting the edge of the bed. He did as he was told, his heart sinking.

"I need to know," she began, her voice a low purr, "that you know how to keep a woman happy. Not just my daughter. Any woman."

"Strip," she commanded.

He hesitated, his mind screaming in protest. This was a line he couldn't cross.

"Do it," she said, her voice losing its softness, taking on the familiar, sharp edge of command. "Unless you want me to get my cane."

He stripped, his movements stiff and robotic, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Kiss my feet," she ordered, extending one elegantly pedicured foot. "Work your way slowly up my legs. Show me you can be worshipful."

He knelt, his face burning. He pressed his lips to the top of her foot, the skin soft and cool. He began to kiss his way up her calf, his stomach churning with revulsion and a strange, terrifying sense of obedience. As he reached her thigh, overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment, he instinctively reached out a hand to touch her leg, to steady himself.

"Don't you dare touch me!" she snapped, her voice like a whip. "That is forbidden!" She raised her voice. "Sarah! Come in here now!"

The door opened immediately. Sarah entered, and the sight of her made Mark's blood run cold. She was smiling, a bright, eager smile, as if she had been waiting just outside for her cue.

"Tie his hands behind his back," Eleanor instructed.

Sarah moved quickly, her hands expertly binding his wrists with a silk scarf. Once he was secure, she sat down on the bed beside her mother, their bodies close, their shoulders touching.

"Continue," Eleanor said to Mark.

He resumed his oral worship, his mind a fog of confusion and horror. He couldn't see it, but as he kissed his way up Eleanor's thigh, Sarah leaned forward. She took her mother's heavy breast into her mouth, her tongue flicking across the large, darkening nipple. Eleanor sighed, her hand coming up to stroke her daughter's hair.

Mark was oblivious, lost in his own personal hell. But Sarah was not. Her own pussy, hidden beneath her skirt, was tender and pleasantly sore from the vigorous fucking she had received just an hour ago. It had been from Mark's best friend, Tom, who was also set to be their best man. They had met for a "final best man's lunch" while Mark was at work, a lunch that had ended with Tom bending her over his sofa. As she suckled her mother's breast, she could still feel the ghost of Tom's cock inside her, could still taste him on her lips.

Mark looked up at the two women, a tableau of twisted intimacy and power. He saw Eleanor's eyes closed in pleasure, saw Sarah's head bent to her mother's breast. In that moment, with his hands tied behind his back and his face pressed into his future mother-in-law's flesh, he finally saw, but didn’t really understand,  what his future held. This wasn't an engagement. It was an indoctrination. The wedding was in a week, but he was already trapped, a prisoner in a cage of their making, and the bars were not made of metal, but of his own shattered will.