The rain hammered against the Georgian windows of their Rathmines townhouse as Sean stood trembling in the bedroom doorway, watching his wife Fiona laugh at something Mark had whispered in her ear. Mark—her "personal trainer" for the past three months, a broad-shouldered Dubliner from Crumlin with hands like shovels and a cock that Sean had accidentally seen once when he'd come home early from the Docklands office.
That glimpse had haunted him. Sean's own four inches, now straining against the pink plastic chastity cage Fiona had locked him into last weekend, seemed pathetic by comparison.
"Ah, there he is," Fiona said, her Irish lilt dripping with mockery. She was still in her work clothes—the sharp blazer and pencil skirt from her solicitor's office—but her blouse was unbuttoned lower than professional standards allowed. Mark's thick fingers traced circles on her exposed collarbone. "Come here, pet. Mark wants a word."
Sean shuffled forward, the heels Fiona had made him wear clicking against the hardwood floor. He was dressed in the uniform she'd chosen: fishnet stockings, a too-small maid's apron that barely covered his caged clitty, and nothing else. His face burned with humiliation, but his cage felt impossibly tight.
"Your missus tells me you've been a useless ride in the sack for years," Mark said, not unkindly, leaning back against the headboard of the bed Sean still technically shared with his wife. The bed where he'd proposed to her seven years ago, down on one knee in this very room. "Says you've got a mickey like a baby carrot and the staying power of a teenager on his first shift."
"That's… that's not…" Sean stammered, but Fiona's sharp look silenced him.
"Don't lie, Sean. Not anymore." She stood up, smoothing her skirt, and walked to the wardrobe. She returned with something that made Sean's knees weak—a black leather collar with a little silver tag that read "PROPERTY." "Mark's moving in this weekend. He's going to sleep here. In our bed. And you're going to serve us both. Isn't that right?"
Sean looked between them—his beautiful, sharp-tongued wife who'd grown tired of his fumbling advances, and this confident man who'd somehow claimed her in a way Sean never could. The cage bit into his flesh as he grew harder, trapped and throbbing.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes… Mistress. Yes, Sir."
Mark laughed, a deep sound that vibrated through the room. "Fucking hell, Fee, you weren't lying. Look at the state of him—he's leaking already." He pointed at the wet spot forming on Sean's apron, the evidence of his arousal impossible to hide. "Come here, sissy. On your knees. Show me what that mouth can do since your little prick's useless."
The carpet burned Sean's knees as he crawled forward. He'd never been with a man before—had never even considered it—but as he knelt between Mark's spread thighs and watched those rough hands unbuckle a belt and unzip trousers, he felt something shift in his chest. Release. Freedom, ironically, in complete submission.
Mark's cock sprang free, heavy and thick, already half-hard and smelling of musk and sweat from the gym. It was easily twice Sean's length, probably more, with a fat head that glistened with precum. Sean's mouth watered involuntarily.
"Look at him," Fiona said, delighted. She'd settled into the armchair by the window, phone in hand, recording everything. "He's starving for it, Mark. The poor desperate bastard's been craving a real cock his whole life and didn't even know it."
Sean didn't protest. He couldn't. Because as he opened his mouth and felt that weight slide across his tongue, stretching his lips, filling his throat until his eyes watered—he knew she was right. This was what he was for. Not fucking. Not being a husband in the traditional sense. But serving. Submitting. Being a hole for a superior man to use while his wife watched, finally getting the pleasure Sean could never provide.
"Ah, fuck," Mark groaned, gripping Sean's hair—still short, still the haircut of a respectable financial analyst, though that would change soon, Fiona had promised. "He's a natural, Fee. Tight little throat on him. You trained him well."
"I didn't train him for shit," Fiona said, her voice breathy now as she touched herself through her skirt. "He was born to be a sissy slut. I just finally gave him permission."
Mark started to thrust, not gently, using Sean's mouth like a fleshlight, drool spilling down Sean's chin onto his chest. The humiliation was absolute—their wedding photo stared down from the dresser, Sean in his suit looking proud and stupid, completely unaware that this was his destiny: kneeling in heels and fishnets while a better man face-fucked him in his own marital bed.
When Mark finally pulled out and sprayed thick ropes of cum across Sean's face—coating his glasses, his lips, his blushing cheeks—Sean came too. Not from touching himself, which was impossible through the cage, but from the sheer degradation of it, the prostate pressure building until he was shuddering, whimpering, leaking pathetic clear fluid from his cage onto the expensive carpet while his wife laughed and Mark called him a good little slut.
"Clean yourself up," Fiona said, tossing him a tissue but smirking because they both knew he'd wear Mark's spend for the rest of the evening. "Then go make us dinner. I'm starving, and Mark's staying the night. You'll sleep in the spare room. From now on, that's your room. The big bed is for me and my boyfriend."
"Yes, Mistress," Sean mumbled, cum dripping from his chin, his cage still throbbing with denied need.
"And Sean?" Mark added, zipping up with a satisfied grin. "Tomorrow after work, I'm bringing a mate from the rugby club over. He doesn't believe me about my setup here. You're going to show him exactly how grateful Dublin sissies are for real cock. Understood?"
Sean looked at his wife, at the happiness in her eyes that he hadn't seen in years, at the power and satisfaction radiating from her. Then he looked down at his cage, at the wet spot, at the evidence of his complete transformation from husband to cuckold to sissy slut.
"Yes, Sir," he said. "Thank you, Sir."
Outside, the Dublin rain kept falling, but Sean didn't mind. He had a new purpose now. And as he tottered downstairs to start dinner, heels clicking, face still sticky with another man's cum, he realized he'd never felt more complete.
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