By David Sellers
Roger was sitting on a small stool near the head of the bondage board. He was fully dressed in his work clothes, smiling broadly, and holding two used condoms over my head. He had one in each hand. One was from last night’s fuck, he told me, one was from this morning’s fuck. And one was going about to be emptied into my mouth. My choice would determine whether I got this morning’s load — still warm, Roger said — or last night’s cold, congealed load.
They — my husband, my husband’s boyfriend — had come into the storeroom a moment ago. I wasn’t quite asleep, but the clicking of both deadbolts quickly brought me out of a bondage-induced dream state. Roger pulled the stool we keep in the storeroom over to the bondage board and removed my blindfold. He told me it had been six hours — “maybe a little more” — and then he held the condoms up.
“Choose,” Roger said.
He flashed me that smile again. He was loving this. I nodded my head toward Roger’s right hand.
“Too bad,” said Roger. “Last night’s condom.”
Roger tossed the condom in his left hand — this morning’s condom — into the small plastic trash bin we kept in the storeroom for used paper towels and condoms. Then he glanced over his shoulder, back at my husband, who leaning against the door frame. My husband was wearing pajama bottoms and nothing else. His arms were folded over his chest. He had the self-satisfied look of a man who had just fucked the hell out of a cute boy’s ass. My husband smiled and nodded. He was giving Roger the go-ahead.
“Roger’s going to take your gag out now,” my husband said to me. “Don’t say anything. Just open your mouth so Roger can feed you the load I blew in his ass — ”
“Last night,” Roger interjected.
“Last night. And then he’ll go to go to work.”
“But I don’t want to hear you say a word,” Roger said. “It’s a new rule. There are three new rules: you’re stored when I’m here, you never speak when I’m here — not to me, not to your husband — and you don’t get to come when I’m here.”
“You understand?” my husband asked.
I nodded — still gagged, still strapped down.
“Your life is going to suck when I’m around,” Roger said, laughing and grinning. “It’s going to suck so hard.”
I looked at my husband.
“Eat my load,” my husband said, “and we’ll talk after Roger goes.”
Roger unbuckled the gag. My mouth was dry and my jaw was sore. Roger held the condom I had selected over my mouth.
“Open your mouth, you sick fuck,” said Roger.
He turned the condom upside down and ran two fingers down the length of it, squeezing its contents out and the watery, room-temperature come fell into my mouth. Then he picked up the gag and moved to put it back in my mouth.
Wait — wasn’t I supposed to get let out now?
My husband walked over and put a hand on Roger’s shoulder. I thought — but didn’t dare say — “my hero.” My husband was going tell Roger to put down the gag because it was time to untie me.
“Feed him both my loads,” my husband said.
I felt like I’d been punched in the chest.
Roger jumped up, crossed to the trash bin, and retrieved the other condom.
“This is the only way he should be allowed to taste your come,” said Roger. He was talking to my husband, but looking right at me. “This sick fuck should only be able to taste your come after it’s been in my ass.”
Roger turned the second condom over, and squeezed out this morning’s load.
I swallowed, then bit my lower lip. I was breathing heavily. Honestly, I was pretty close to the breaking point. I’d been tied up all night — from close to midnight to sometime after six in the morning — and I wanted out. I had gotten some sleep, but not much, and I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I needed to move my legs and arms, which were aching. I was bursting to piss. Surely I would be getting out now — it was morning, and they both had to go to work. And what the hell else could they possibly do to me?
“Now you can gag the sick fuck,” my husband said. “And blindfold him too.”
I took a breath as if to speak.
“Shut up,” Roger said. “Shut. Up. You. Sick. Fuck.”
I shook my head no — that was allowed, right? — and clamped my mouth shut. My husband walked around to the other side of the bondage board. He placed right hand on the board, next to my left shoulder, and leaned in close, his face inches from mine. Then his left put his left hand on my cock.
“Hard,” my husband said.
“Of course the sick fuck is hard,” said Roger. “Sick fuck’s cock is hard.”
I wanted to speak. I wanted to say, “Morning wood! Piss hard-on!” But it would’ve been a lie. My cock, once again, was my worst enemy. Everything that was happening was turning me on despite myself — despite my pain and discomfort and, frankly, my growing fear. Where was this all going? Roger and my husband weren’t just fucking around. They had a relationship and it was an open-ended one. This could potentially go on for … weeks? Months? Forever?
“Open your mouth,” my husband said.
I opened my mouth. Roger put the gag back in and buckled it in place.
Fuck, this was turning me on. Not the bondage. Or not just the bondage.
My husband had always been sexually selfish; it was part of what I loved about him. And I had grown more and more submissive to him, sexually, over the years we had been together. Our sex life had long been built around meeting his needs. He got into bondage at first because it made a virtue — and a ritual and a game — of his sexual selfishness. We had been doing pretty much whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, for almost a decade.
And now my husband wanted Roger, this sexy boy who had told me — who had announced to us both — that he would never let me out of the storeroom if it were up to him.
The blindfold went on.
One of them — could’ve been Roger, could’ve been my husband — unzipped the crotch of the sleepsack and pulled my hard cock out. While one stroked my cock, the other started strapping my head down to the bondage board. My head hadn’t been strapped down. It was the only movement I had enjoyed during the previous six hours — at this point probably seven — hours in bondage.
Clamps went on my tits and then I heard — fuck me — the particular sounds of my husband’s favorite ballcrusher. The sounds of the lucite plates rattling as were unmistakable. A moment later someone — probably my husband — was tightening the bolts on the ballcrusher.
I heard them stand and walk to the door. I heard the door open, I heard the door close. I hoped — I prayed — that Roger was outside the storeroom, heading to work, and my husband inside. He couldn’t leave me like this, could he?
Then I heard a deadbolt lock click into place — but just one.
I was alone. Just as helpless — more helpless — than I was before they came in and announced that my six hours were up. Only now I couldn’t move my head, my tits were clamped, and my balls were in agony.
“What the fuck!” I thought to myself, as pain seemingly ricochetted from my balls to my tits. “I didn’t consent to this!”
Then I realized that I hadn’t consented to any of it.
To be continued tomorrow …
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