Rhoda's Pet

The night of the dinner arrived as quickly as a guillotine drop. I had booked a table at the Boeuf Steakhouse in Rochester, a place my parents held in high regard. Rhoda surprised me with her outfit. She wore a conservative navy-blue dress that buttoned up to the neck, sensible shoes with a modest heel, and jewelry that caught the light with a cold, expensive glow. It was the outfit of a matron, a respectable woman. Her makeup was minimal and flawless, and she smelled of soap and something costly, not the cigarette smoke and cheap perfume that usually clung to her.

She had spent the entire morning going over the script with me. I knew what to say, when to smile, and exactly how much eye contact to make. If the evening went well, she promised a treat. I didn't know what it was, but the anticipation made my stomach turn.

My parents were already seated when we arrived. They looked up as we walked in, with the hostess guiding Rhoda to the seat of honor. I could see the confusion clearly on their faces, a mix of shock and polite curiosity. My dad leaned forward, his eyes shifting between Rhoda and me. "She's... different," he muttered, loud enough for me to hear. "You don't usually go for this type."

Rhoda just smiled, a perfectly calibrated, disarming curve of the lips that silenced him instantly.

Stacy, my sister, arrived. She looked stunning, as usual, sharp in her evening wear. The memory of Gwen’s voice from the flat echoed in my mind: “Anyway, his bitch of a sister is more my taste.” I shivered, the hairs on my arms standing on end. I was leading my family into a trap, and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.

Rhoda was a master of disguise. She didn't just sit at the table; she owned it. When the conversation shifted to Rochester's history or the current state of the local economy, she spoke with authority, citing facts and figures that even impressed my father. When asked about her background, she presented the perfect version of the truth—tough upbringing, self-made success, no-nonsense attitude.

I watched in awe and a touch of horror. She seemed to possess conversational knowledge on every topic discussed, switching effortlessly from business to art to local gossip without hesitation. My parents, proud of their social standing, were clearly impressed. They looked at me with renewed pride, convinced they had finally found a suitable daughter-in-law who could hold her own.

I overheard her corner Stacy near the dessert course. "The moon landing was fake," Rhoda said, her eyes bright with mischief. "I'm a total flat earther, Stacy. It's all a distraction." She went on to talk about lizard people, the hollow earth, and government conspiracies. For a second, I saw Stacy’s eyes light up.  Rhoda told her she simply must meet her sister, Gwen. To my horror, Stacy said, "I'd love that. I have so many theories I want to talk about.”

The evening was a huge success. My parents were overjoyed. They were already planning the wedding in their minds, imagining a future full of status and respectability. I had done my part; the puppet had danced well.

Once we were in the car and the restaurant disappeared from sight, the mask came off immediately. We drove away from the curb, and Rhoda lit a cigarette. She looked out the window, blowing out a cloud of smoke that filled the small space.

"What a bunch of jumped-up wankers," she muttered, her voice devoid of any affection. She didn't seem to care in the slightest that she was insulting the very people who had just signed over their son's life to her. She looked at me, a cruel smirk on her lips. "They think they're so much better than everybody, James. But they're just as weak. And soon you’ll see for yourself.”

The mask slipped the moment the front door clicked shut. "Strip," she commanded. "And meet me in my bedroom."

By the time I crawled across the floorboards, she was already there. Naked, sitting on the edge of the bed with a long cigarette burning in the ashtray. She pushed her foot out, the heel tapping impatiently against the mattress. I didn't need to be told twice. I lowered my head, pressing my lips to her toes, paying homage to a queen I loathed. I kissed her foot, then shifted to the other one, inhaling the smoke she blew my way.

"I promised you a treat, didn't I, pet?"

She stubbed out the cigarette in the Gordon Gin ashtray I bought yesterday. There was now an ashtray in every room, serving as a constant, ugly reminder of her ownership.

"On the bed, face up."

She stepped aside. I lay down, my head resting on the silk. She cuffed my wrists to the iron headboard and my ankles to the posts, spreading me wide and completely exposed, like a specimen on a dissecting table.

Her hand wrapped around my cock. It was warm, her grip firm and possessive. She stroked me slowly, teasing the sensitive skin. "I can't wait to get this inside me. I'm so tempted by you, but we're not married yet."

I groaned as she tormented the tip, pleasure blending with the sting of rejection.

"Fortunately, I found someone who doesn't care if I'm engaged or not , he just wanted to fuck me",

She spat into her palm, warming the slickness, and stroked me more firmly. "But he was nowhere near as big as this monster."

I was close, teetering on the edge. I lifted my hips, chasing the friction, desperate to get off on the fact that she was using me to get off on the memory of another man.

"But I thought about my pet all the time he was taking my every hole. Wishing it was you."

The words hit me harder than a physical blow. The mental image of her being filled by another man, her body arching in pleasure, while her mind was occupied with thoughts of me? It was a twisted kind of validation that broke my resolve instantly. I was getting closer, my hips bucking instinctively, chasing the friction I couldn't feel anymore.

Then her hand vanished. The cold air of the room rushed in to replace her touch, shocking my sensitive skin. I groaned in pure frustration, the orgasm slipping through my fingers, leaving me aching and desperate.

She stood up and walked toward the shelf. My heart hammered against my ribs. Was she coming back to finish me? Or was this over?

"Open up," she commanded.

I obeyed instantly, my jaw dropping as she slid something hard and round into my mouth. She fastened a strap behind my head, forcing my mouth into an unnatural, stretched 'O'. My tongue was useless, trapped under the barrier. Her head hovered over mine, and she puckered her lips. A thick line of drool formed at the corner of her mouth and dripped straight into my open mouth. I could only swallow it, gagging slightly as the warm, salty fluid coated my throat.

She moved away, and I heard the sound of tearing plastic. I gasped, my eyes flying open, as she rolled something cool and rubbery down my hard cock. She started stroking me again, but the rhythm was hard and mechanical, devoid of the teasing finesse that had built me up. It was just a pump, a grind. I groaned into the gag, my body seizing, and I came hard, my seed shooting into the rubber she had covered my prick with.

"Are you ready for your treat, my pet?"

She asked as she pulled the rubber off my softening cock. I opened my eyes to see Rhoda looking down at me. She was holding the filled condom, the white liquid swishing inside.

She upturned it and put the open end into the ring that held my mouth open. I gagged as she squeezed the cold, viscous content into my mouth, forcing me to swallow my own release.

Rhoda looked down at me, watching the cold, viscous mess slide down my throat. She stroked my cheek with a tenderness that felt completely fake. "Such a good boy," she cooed.

She grabbed her cigarettes from the nightstand. "I always like a smoke after good sex," she said, her voice husky. "I find it calms me down." She lit one, the flame illuminating her face, and blew a long plume of gray smoke into the stale air.

She climbed on top of my chest, her weight pressing down on my lungs. She began scratching my chest aimlessly, her fingernails digging into the skin and leaving angry red streaks that stung. She seemed lost in the sensation for a moment, then, with a soft sigh, she just faded away. She collapsed against me, dead weight.

"Damn," she murmured. "I forgot my ashtray. I know how you like to keep things tidy."

Before I could react, she flicked a glowing ember right into my open mouth. I choked, coughing as the hot ash hit the back of my throat. But Rhoda was helpful. She dribbled a big line of spit from her mouth, wetting the ash, and patted my face. "Swallow it, pet. Let’s keep the place clean.”