Marriage Plan

The leash attached to the top of the harness was jerked forward with a brutal, sudden force. Simultaneously, a sharp, vicious kick landed squarely in the back of Mark's knees. His legs, already unsteady from the hours of bondage and the disorienting darkness of the blindfold, buckled instantly. He crumpled forward onto them, a strangled, pathetic cry escaping his throat, muffled into a wet, useless sound by the thick rubber cock and the soiled panties that filled his mouth. The room, a blur of shadow and light to his tear-filled eyes, erupted in a chorus of cheers, whistles, and drunken laughter. The sound was a physical assault, a wave of gleeful cruelty that washed over him, making him shrink in on himself.

He felt the leash being passed off, the looped handle slipping from one hand to another with a casual, proprietary air.

"Come here, bitch," a female voice commanded, sharp with drunken excitement. The leash was pulled taut, a sharp, insistent tug that forced his head forward and down, his body awkwardly scrambling to follow the command.

Karen, one of Sarah's more boisterous and perpetually single friends, was now holding the leash. She sat on the edge of a plush armchair, her legs spread wide in a gesture of crude invitation, her short skirt hiked up to her waist, revealing the lack of underwear beneath. She grabbed hold of the dildo sticking out from the harness with one hand, her other still gripping the leash, and pulled it in towards her waiting, wet pussy. She let go of the leash and grabbed the sides of the leather harness, using it for leverage as she pulled him in closer, forcing the rubber cock deep inside her with a guttural moan of satisfaction. He almost fell forward, his hands still taped uselessly behind his back, leaving him with no way to balance, no way to stop the momentum. He was just a tool, a faceless, nameless object for her pleasure, a living dildo with a man attached.

He was used again and again. One by one, or sometimes in pairs, the women took their turn. He was pulled from one to the next, his face and the dildo a communal plaything for their amusement. He was kicked in the ribs when he was too slow, slapped across the face when he stumbled, and constantly, relentlessly called a pathetic pervert, a worthless little panty-sniffer, a freak. His backside was soon a canvas of pain, covered in red welts from slaps and sharp bite marks from a particularly enthusiastic girl with teeth like a vampire. His balls, still confined and throbbing in the cage, were grabbed and twisted, bringing fresh tears to his eyes that mingled with the sweat and grime on his face.

Through it all, Eleanor stood and watched, a glass of deep red wine in her hand, a serene, smiling observer of the entertainment she had orchestrated. She had her arm draped possessively over the shoulder of another of Sarah's friends, a quiet, mousy woman named Carol who seemed to be there solely to be Eleanor's prop. They would occasionally kiss, a soft, possessive peck on the lips, and Eleanor would sometimes give Carol's hair a sharp, warning tug, a quiet reminder of her own place in the intricate hierarchy of power she had built.

Sarah was the picture of a satisfied spectator. She sat on Tom's lap, her arm wrapped around his shoulder, her head nestled against his chest as she watched her husband being used and tortured. Tom's hand rested possessively on her thigh, his thumb stroking her skin in a slow, rhythmic motion that was more intimate than a kiss. She watched Mark's degradation with a look of detached curiosity, as if observing a particularly fascinating nature documentary about the mating habits of the lowest form of life. She would occasionally giggle at a particularly cruel comment or lean up to whisper something in Tom's ear, which would make him smile and squeeze her tighter.

The night eventually ended, the guests departing in a flurry of loud goodbyes and lingering, drunken laughter. Mark was left in the corner, curled up on his side on the hard wooden floor. His arms were on fire from being taped behind his back for so long, his neck ached with a deep, muscular pain from the weight of the harness, and his backside was a throbbing, bruised mess. His balls were red and sore from the casual abuse, and he was sobbing, quiet, wracking sobs of utter despair that shook his entire body.

Sarah and Tom went up to the master bedroom together, without a backward glance. Eleanor went to the kitchen and returned to the lounge, a pair of sharp, heavy-duty scissors in her hand. She knelt beside Mark, her movements efficient and devoid of pity. With a few deft snips, she began to cut away the duct tape cocoon. She pulled the strips away, leaving Mark’s skin red and raw. She removed the harness, unbuckling the straps and pulling it from his head. Then she carefully cut away the tape around his face before finally, with a delicate pinch of her fingers, pulling Sarah's soiled panties from his face.

He looked up at Eleanor, his face a mess of tears, snot, and humiliation. His expression was utterly pitiful. His face was red and blotchy, as were his eyes, and his hair was all mussed up and damp with sweat from the harness. If he was looking for sympathy, he was looking in the wrong place.

"Don't you thank me, boy?" Eleanor asked, her voice cold and sharp as ice.

"If it were up to Sarah, you would be taken down into the cellar and left there. She's disgusted with you."

"Thank you, Ma'am," he whimpered, his voice a cracked, broken whisper.

She put her foot forward, the elegant point of her shoe inches from his face. "Do it properly."

He didn't get it at first; his mind was too fogged with pain and despair to process the command. She tapped her foot impatiently on the floor. He leaned forward, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through his screaming shoulders, and pressed his lips to the polished leather of her shoe.

"You know, boy, Sarah's lucky she has good friends to support, helping her cope with the distress you are causing her," Eleanor said, her voice a low, cruel purr. "And that friend of yours. What's his name? Tom, that's it. He's a rock. So kind and strong. All the girls like him." She was turning the screw, and she knew it was painful for him. "Maybe Sarah married the wrong man."

She threw the flowery nightie at him. It landed on his head like a shroud. "You had better clean this mess up before you go to bed. After all, if it wasn't for your appalling behaviour, my Sarah wouldn't have needed cheering up. And be quiet. Sarah's trying to sleep."

She turned and left him there, kneeling and shaking on the floor amidst the debris of the party.

"My fault," he whispered to himself, his voice a broken, ragged thing. "My fucking fault. Always my fucking fault."

He stood carefully, leaning on a chair for balance. He looked down at the pile of duct tape, Sarah's knickers, and the leather harness on the floor. Another sob escaped him, followed by an angry, frustrated kick. He yelped as his foot missed the pile and struck the heavy wooden chair leg hard. A sharp, shooting pain radiated up his shin. And that's when the tears really fell, hot and unstoppable.