Marriage Plan

Sarah came back around six that evening, the sound of her key in the lock echoing through the silent house like a gunshot. Mark had been down in the cellar for two hours, and he was filthy, his skin coated in grime and sweat, his muscles aching from the unfamiliar labour. He had managed to clear a small space in one corner, piling the broken furniture and mouldering boxes into a precarious mountain of junk.

Eleanor heard her daughter arrive and came to the top of the cellar steps. "Mark," she called down, her voice sharp. "Shower. Now. And change into the nightie that's under your pillow. Then come downstairs."

He did as he was ordered, his movements slow and weary. The hot water was a blessing, washing away the cellar's dirt but doing nothing to cleanse the stain of his humiliation. When he came back downstairs, carrying the dirt-stained gym clothes, he put them in the washing basket and went into the lounge.

Eleanor and Sarah were sitting on the sofa, chatting. He could tell immediately that Sarah had been drinking; she had a loose, brittle energy around her, a different kind of buzz that was both volatile and predatory. She looked around at him, and a cruel sneer twisted her lips.

"Oh, here he is," she drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "My pervert, pantie-sniffing husband. How could you do that to Mummy?"

He looked down at the ground, his face burning, but she wasn't finished.

"I was going to spend some special time with you tonight," she continued, her voice rising with mock sorrow. "It was going to be lovely, just you and me. But now... after what you did... I just don't know what to do with you."

Tears welled up in his eyes, hot and shameful. He felt like a child being scolded, a worthless, pathetic creature.

"Follow me," she ordered, standing up.

He followed her, his head bowed, down to the cellar. Eleanor followed them down, her footsteps a steady, ominous beat behind him. "Stand in the area you cleared this afternoon," Sarah commanded, pointing to the small, clean patch of concrete floor. "And strip that nightie off."

He did, his hands fumbling with the ribbon, the thin cotton falling to the floor. Eleanor went into a small alcove and opened a rusty metal cabinet, which groaned in protest. She rummaged inside.

Sarah spoke first, her voice low and dangerous. "If you want to smell my panties so badly..." She looked him dead in the eye as she slowly, deliberately, pulled her own panties down from under her summer dress. They were wet, not just with her own arousal, but with the thick, pearly remnants of Tom and her fucking from that afternoon. She held them up for a moment, a trophy of her infidelity, before pulling them down over his head, making sure the soiled, fragrant gusset was covering his nose and mouth. The scent was overwhelming, a potent cocktail of her sex and another man's.

Eleanor handed her a roll of black duct tape. Sarah began to wrap it around and around his head, over the panties, pulling it tight. She wrapped it until his head was practically mummified, leaving only small gaps for his nostrils. He was trapped in a prison of her scent, his breathing restricted to air thick with the evidence of her betrayal.

Then she pulled his arms behind his back and strapped them together with the duct tape. She wrapped it around and around, from his wrists up to his elbows, fusing them together. She wrapped more tape around his stomach, pinning his arms to his back. "Kneel," she ordered. He sank to his knees, and she wrapped his ankles with the same tape until he was completely immobilised. He was helpless, a trussed-up parcel of shame. All he could smell was his wife, and something else, something musky and alien. He didn't know he was breathing in the essence of his best friend's spunk.

He felt a pulling on his cage. Eleanor had attached a length of rough garden twine to the end of it. She pulled the cage upwards by the twine, stretching his genitals painfully, and tied it off to a rusty nail sticking out of one of the low ceiling beams. He let out a muffled groan of pain.

Then it went silent. They left. The cellar door closed, the sound echoing, followed by the click of the lock. He was left in the dark, damp cellar, looking like a makeshift, pathetic mummy, suspended by his own caged cock.

Upstairs, a few phone calls were made, and soon the front doorbell was ringing. Friends began to arrive. There was drinking and dancing, the thump of bass from the stereo vibrating through the floorboards. Mark was aware of the muffled music in the background, the sound of people arriving, of laughter and voices moving around. After an hour or so, his head moved, the duct tape creaking in his ear. He heard footsteps on the stairs, then giggles and snickers.

Then Sarah spoke, her voice loud and clear in the cellar. "This is him," she announced, her voice full of gleeful pride. "The dirty little pantie sniffer. Down in the dirty cellar where he belongs."

There were more voices, murmurs of curiosity and amusement. Tom stepped down into the cellar, smiling. He held Sarah from behind, kissing her neck possessively. She leaned back into him, her body melting against his. Then another girl spoke.

"I don't know why you didn't marry that hunk you brought with you this afternoon instead of this freak."

Sarah moaned softly as Tom squeezed her nipples through her dress. She pushed away from him slightly, turning to face her friends. "Oh, this little pussy has its uses," she said, tapping Mark's head with her finger. "He's good with his mouth." She tapped the cage, which jingled softly. "And I'm sure Tom," she said, looking up at him with adoring eyes, "wouldn't let me put his cock, and from what I've heard, his big cock, into a cage like this. Anyway," she added, turning back to her friends, "he's Mark's best friend. He would never betray him."

All the girls watching snickered as Tom and Sarah kissed, a passionate, public display of their affair.

"It's cold down here," one of the girls complained. "Can we go back upstairs?"

All the girls left, their footsteps receding up the stairs. But Tom stayed behind. He quietly walked around his best friend, circling him like a shark. "Pathetic," he muttered, shaking his head. "Fucking pathetic."

He went to the creaky cabinet and pulled out what Eleanor had told him was there. Mark felt the straps tighten around his head and under his chin as Tom secured a heavy leather harness. The straps were pulled painfully tight. Tom took some pictures with his phone. The harness not only blinded the wearer by means of a thick leather blindfold, but it also had a large, realistic rubber cock sticking out to cover the mouth of the wearer. It had a D-ring at the crown, to which you could attach a leash.

Mark felt the duct tape being cut from his legs and ankles, then the twine from his cock cage. He was free, but not free. Tom attached the leash to the D-ring and pulled hard upwards. Mark groaned into the panties and gingerly stood, his muscles protesting. The leash was pulled again, and Mark's head was pulled down and forward, forcing him into a stooped, submissive posture.

Tom pulled him slowly, step by painful step, up the cellar stairs to the kitchen, and then through to the lounge. As he entered the room, led on a leash like a dog, a blindfolded, gagged freak with a rubber cock protruding from his face, the room erupted in claps and whoops of laughter.

The real entertainment had arrived.