Marriage Plan

The drive home from Cornwall was quiet. Mark drove, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road. He was contrite, broken. The punishment had worked. He had no fight left in him. Sarah sat in the passenger seat, relaxed, one hand resting possessively on his thigh. She had released him that morning, her movements efficient and unemotional. The gag, the hood, the bonds—she had removed them all without a word. She didn’t even mention the piss on the floor. He had stood there, naked and bruised, trembling in the silent cottage.

"Get on your knees," she had said, her voice devoid of all warmth.

He had sunk to the floor without hesitation.

"Apologise properly," she'd said. "Like you did to my mother."

He had crawled to her, his head bowed. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm so sorry."

She had lifted her skirt, standing over him. He had moved his head toward her, expecting to be made to perform his duty. But she had just held his head against her, pressing his face into the fabric of her panties. "Just smell it," she had ordered. "Smell what you almost lost." She would have made him lick it clean, but she was too sore and tender from Tom's vigorous fucking.

As they pulled into the driveway of her mother's home, Eleanor was standing there, the front door open, as if she had been watching for them. Sarah practically leapt from the car and ran to her mother, embracing her. They hugged tightly, then walked into the house together, leaving Mark to gather their bags from the boot and lug them inside, up the stairs, and into their rooms.

After they had both showered—separately—they sat down to dinner with Eleanor in the dining room. Mark was quiet, picking at his food.

"Mark," Eleanor said, her voice sharp. "Go and clean up the kitchen."

He didn't argue. He stood up and cleared the plates, his movements stiff and sore. As he washed the dishes at the sink, he could hear them in the lounge, talking and laughing. The sound was a knife in his heart.

When he returned to the lounge, he found Eleanor standing, while Sarah sat on the sofa, looking appropriately sad.

"Mark," Eleanor began, her eyes cold. "Did you and I have a conversation about looking after my girl?"

He nodded. "Yes, Ma'am."

"And did I warn you what would happen if you failed?"

He nodded again, his stomach twisting.

That's when she slapped him. The blow was sharp, stinging, and unexpected. His head snapped to the side. "I warned you," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Sarah has told me everything. You were grouchy and selfish because she forgot the key. Why did you argue with her? Why did you make her punish you?”

He just stood there, his cheek burning.

"Sarah," Eleanor said, holding out her hand. "The key."

Sarah dutifully handed it over. Eleanor examined it for a moment before dropping it into her pocket. "I will be holding on to this," she informed Mark. "You will earn it back. If you are good for one month, I will give it back to Sarah. If not..." She let the threat hang in the air.

"Now," she continued, "about your punishment. Sarah tells me she used a belt. I want to see how well she did. Strip."

He stripped, his body trembling with a mixture of fear and resignation.

"Turn around," she ordered.

He did, and he heard her make a small, approving sound. "Very nice, darling," she said to Sarah. "Good, clean lines."

She walked over to a chest of drawers and pulled something out. She threw it at him. It was a short, pale pink cotton nightgown with a little ribbon at the neckline. It was something a young girl would wear.

"Put it on," she commanded.

He looked at it, then at her, his mind refusing to comprehend.

"If you are going to act like a pathetic, crying little girl," she snarled, "then you will dress like one."

He pulled the frilly garment over his head. The soft cotton was a mockery against his bruised skin.

"To your knees," she snapped.

He knelt.

"Kiss Sarah's feet," Eleanor commanded. “Apologise and thank her for a lovely trip."

He crawled to Sarah and pressed his lips to the top of her bare feet. "I'm sorry," he mumbled against her skin. "Thank you for the trip."

"Good," Eleanor said. "Now, go to the box room. You will sleep in there until you can learn to act like a grown-up."

He stood up and walked out of the lounge, his head bowed. The box room was a tiny, windowless space at the top of the stairs, used for storage. He went inside and closed the door. It was only then that he noticed the handle on the inside was gone. There was just a smooth, round metal plate. He was locked in.

Later that evening, as he was trying to find a comfortable position on the narrow cot they had left in there, he heard the front doorbell ring. Distant chatter and laughter drifted up the stairs. It was too faint for him to make out who was saying what, but he had a sinking feeling he knew.

Downstairs, Eleanor opened the door to find Tom standing there, a confident smirk on his face. She smiled and hugged him, pressing herself against him, feeling his big, hard cock rub against her thigh through their clothes.

"Hello, handsome," she purred, her hand lingering on his chest.

Behind her, Sarah sighed dramatically. "Mother," she said, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation, though she was unable to hide the smile playing on her lips.

Eleanor turned and winked at her daughter. "Don't be jealous, darling. There's plenty to go around." She told Tom to come in. He walked straight to Sarah, grabbing her and kissing her hard and hungry. Then Eleanor led them both upstairs into the large master bedroom meant for Mark and Sarah.

Eleanor stood in the doorway, watching them for a moment. Tom was already undressing Sarah, his hands possessive and sure. "Don't make too much noise," Eleanor said, her voice a low, throaty command. "We don't want to wake the little princess in the tower. I'll be in my room if you need me."

She closed the master bedroom door, leaving them to it, and walked to her own room at the end of the hall. She didn't feel jealous. Why should she? Tom was a tool, a magnificent, virile tool, but a tool nonetheless. He was just another tool for breaking Mark. And now that Mark was almost broken, his role was shifting. He was Sarah's plaything now, her husband in name only, a pet to be trained and disciplined. Eleanor's work was done. She had successfully protected her daughter and secured her future. She had passed the torch.

Inside the master bedroom, Tom and Sarah fell onto the big bed. They made love with a ferocious, hungry intensity, a celebration of their shared victory. It was a raw, primal coupling, a confirmation of their bond. And in the tiny boxroom, Mark lay awake on the narrow cot, wondering what his wife was doing as she slept in their big bed alone. 

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The lock on the box room door clicked open with a sound that was far too loud in the oppressive silence. Mark, who had been dozing fitfully on the narrow cot, jumped up, his heart hammering against his ribs. The door swung inward, revealing Eleanor standing there, framed in the hallway light. She was wearing a plush housecoat, her expression unreadable.

"Strip," she said, her voice a low, sharp command. "And be quiet. Your wife is sleeping. She had a... rough night because of you."

Mark's mind reeled. Because of him? He was the one who had slept in the cold room on a lumpy cot. But he didn't dare question her. He stood up, his movements stiff and sore, and pulled the ridiculous pink nightie off over his head. He stood naked before her, the cage a cold, familiar weight.

"Fold it up," she ordered. "Neatly. And put it under the pillow."

He did as he was told, his hands trembling as he folded the frilly cotton and tucked it away. She threw a rough towel onto the cot.

"Spread it out. Lie down."

He complied, the towel scratchy against his back. She took a small bunch of keys from her housecoat pocket and used one to open a cupboard he hadn't noticed in the corner of the small room. Inside, on a shelf, were a collection of sinister-looking implements: handcuffs, coils of rope, and other things he couldn't quite make out in the dim light. She took out the handcuffs and a length of rope.

"Put your arms up to the top of the cot," she instructed.

He stretched his arms over his head, his hands gripping the cold metal bars. She efficiently cuffed one wrist, passed the chain through the bars at the head of the cot, and cuffed his other wrist. Then she used the rope to tie his ankles to the bottom corners of the cot, pulling his legs taut and spreading them wide. He was vulnerable, exposed, and a familiar, cold worry began to creep up his spine.

She returned to the cupboard, locking it, and then sorted through her keys again. She found the small, ornate key for his cock cage. With a soft click, she unlocked it. The device fell away, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was free.

"You need to be cleaned down there," she said, her voice clinical.

She reached down and gave his flaccid cock a few tugs. It responded instantly, almost against his will, twitching and growing to its full, modest five inches. Eleanor gave a small, dismissive sniff, as if unimpressed, and left the room.

He lay there, bound and exposed, his mind racing. A few minutes later she returned, carrying a tray. On it was a bowl of warm water, a facecloth, a can of shaving cream, a razor, and a tube of some kind of cream. She set the tray down on the floor beside the cot.

Without a word, she began to work. She soaked the facecloth in the warm water and wrung it out, draping it over his genitals. The heat was a gentle shock. She lathered him up with the shaving cream, its scent clean and sterile. Then, with a steady hand, she began to shave. She was meticulous, scraping away every trace of hair from his shaft, his balls, and the sensitive area between his legs. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face burning with a humiliation so profound it was almost a physical pain. She worked in silence, her focus absolute, as if she were performing a routine surgical procedure. When she was satisfied that not a single hair remained, she wiped him clean with the warm cloth and then patted him dry. Finally, she squeezed a dollop of the cream from the tube onto her fingers and massaged it into his now-smooth skin.

"This cream will stop the hair from growing back as quickly," she said, her voice flat. "It's more hygienic this way."

She collected the tray and left, shutting the door behind her. The moment the latch clicked, he felt it. A sharp, intense burning sensation started in his crotch and rapidly spread. It was a chemical fire, a searing agony that made him writhe against his bonds. He gritted his teeth, a silent scream trapped in his throat as the hair removal cream did its vicious work.

He lost all track of time. The burning slowly subsided to a dull, throbbing heat. He must have drifted into a state of delirium, because the next thing he knew, the door was opening again. Eleanor entered, carrying a pile of neatly folded clothes with a pair of shoes on top. She put the clothes down on the floor and came over to the cot to check on her work. She examined his crotch closely, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. His cock was semi-erect from the residual stimulation, but she expertly manipulated it, locking the cage back on before it could reach its full length. The cold metal felt like a soothing balm against his irritated skin.

She released him from his bonds, her movements as efficient as before. She locked the handcuffs and rope back in the cupboard.

"Have a shower," she said. "Shave your face. Get dressed in these clothes. I have some chores for you to do."

And with that, she was gone. He sat up, his body aching. He picked up the clothes and groaned. It was a PE kit. A short, pleated gym skirt, a pair of big, flowery women's knickers, a tight-fitting gym shirt that, while it fit his chest, left his midriff completely exposed, a pair of white gym socks, and a pair of black plimsolls. It was an outfit designed for maximum humiliation.

He did as he was told, showering quickly and shaving, his hands shaking. He dressed in the ridiculous clothes, feeling a deep, burning shame as he looked at his reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the sink. He looked like a parody, a joke. He took a deep breath and went downstairs.

He found Eleanor in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea. She looked him up and down, a critical appraisal.

"Turn around," she said. "Let me look at you."

He did, his face bright red. "If you acted more like a man," she said, her voice dripping with condescension, "you wouldn't have to wear stuff like that." It seemed that, according to Eleanor and Sarah, everything was his fault. His failures, his weaknesses, were the justification for their cruelty.

She had him make breakfast for Sarah. As he cooked the bacon and eggs, she allowed him a single slice of toast, which he ate standing up, like a servant. When the breakfast was ready, she arranged it on a tray with delicate care. She even placed a single rose in a small vase.

"She would like that touch," Eleanor said. "And you need to try and get back on her good side."

His face was still burning when he knocked on what should have been their bedroom door.

"Come in," a sleepy voice called from within.

He pushed the door open. Sarah was lying in bed, the sheets pulled up to her chin, her hair a tangle around her face. She yawned delicately.

"Oh, hello, love," she said, her voice sweet. "Did you sleep well?"

"Not bad," he replied, his voice hoarse. "You?"

"Oh, wonderfully, thank you," she lied, a dreamy smile on her face. "But I missed you.” She lied

He put the tray down on the bedside table and leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her head at the last second, so his lips landed on her cheek.

"Ooh, sorry," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Rotten overnight breath."

Then she sat up, letting the sheet fall to her waist. "Let me look at you," she said, her eyes roaming over his ridiculous outfit. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. "I'm sorry," she said, though she didn't sound sorry at all. "My mum can be a real bitch. But you do look... really cute."

“In fact”, she said as she pulled the quilt away completely to reveal her naked body. "You're getting me all excited," she purred. "Why don't you show me how much you love me? In that special way."

He looked at her pussy. It was red and swollen, the lips puffy and distended. He couldn't know it was from the vigorous, repeated fucking she had been enjoying with Tom all night, but he could see it was... different. He couldn't resist. He knelt down by the side of the bed.

"Oh, and darling," she said, her voice a husky whisper. "It would really excite me if you asked me. Say, 'Please Miss Sarah, can I please lick your wonderful pussy?'"

He felt a fresh wave of humiliation, but he was too broken to resist. He managed a weak, wary smile. “Please, Miss Sarah," he repeated, his voice barely audible. "Can I please lick your wonderful pussy?"

She moaned as his tongue began its work. In her mind, she wasn't with her pathetic, kneeling husband. She was back in this bed a few hours ago, with Tom's powerful, thick cock pistoning into her. She remembered the moment he came, a huge, hot spurt that had filled her completely. And now, as her husband's tongue explored her tender, swollen folds, she imagined Tom's seed seeping into his mouth, a secret, salty offering of her infidelity that he was unknowingly worshipping. The thought made her shudder with a powerful, genuine orgasm.